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THB 

COMPLETE 


WORKS  or  ROBERT  BURNS. 


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THE 


COMPLETE    WORKS. 


ROBERT    BURNS: 


*» 


OONTAININQ  HIS 

POEMS,  SONGS,  AND  COEEESPONDENCE. 

WITH 

A  NEW  LIFE  OF  THE  POET, 

AND 

NOTICES,    CRITICAL   AND   BIOaRAPHICAL, 
BY  ALLAN  CUNNINaHAM. 

ELEGANTLY   ILLUSTB^A-T.EI).'. ,,  i '/  '.J'/'\  '/>i  \:'\ 


BOSTON : 
PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON,   AND    COMPANY. 

1858. 


ii3?e¥/ 


ARCHIBALD  HASTIE,  ESQ., 

MlSMBER  OF   PARLIAMENT  FOR  PAISLSY; 

THIS 

EDITION 

OF 

TF.E  WORKS    AND    MEMOIRS    OF    A    GREAT    POET, 

IN  WHOSE   SENTIMENTS   OF  FREEDOM  HE   SHARES, 

AND  WHOSE  PICTURES  OP  SOCIAL  AND  DOMESTIC  LIFE  HE  LOVES, 

18  BBSPEGOTtn.LT  AND  QBATEFULLT  XBSOBIBBD 

BT 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


43884.1 


DEDICATION 

TO  THE 

NOBLEMEN   AND   GENTLEMEN 

OF   HBX 

CALEDONIAN  HUNT. 


[On  the  title-page  of  the  second  or  Edinburgh  edition,  -were  these  words :  "  Poems,  chiefly  is 
the  Scottish  Dialect,  by  Kobert  Burns,  printed  for  the  Author,  and  sold  by  William  Creech,  1787." 
The  motto  of  the  Kilmarnock  edition  was  omitted  ;  a  very  numerous  list  of  subscribers  followed : 
(he  volume  was  printed  by  the  celebrated  Smellie.] 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen: 

A  Scottish  Bard,  proud  of  i;lie  name,  and  whose  highest  ambition  is  to  sing  m 
his  country's  service,  where  shall  he  so  properly  look  for  patronage  as  to  the  illustrious 
names  of  hrs  native  land :  those  who  bear  the  honours  and  inherit  the  virtues  of  their 
ancestors  ?  The  poetic  genius  of  my  country  found  me,  as  the  prophetic  bard  Elijah 
did  Elisha — at  the  plough,  and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  me.  She  bade  me 
sing  the  loves,  the  joys,  the  rural  scenes  and  rural  pleasures  of  my  native  soil,  in  my 
native  tongue ;  I  tuned  my  wild,  artless  notes  as  she  inspired.  She  whispered  me  to 
come  to  this  ancient  metropolis  of  Caledonia,  and  lay  my  songs  under  your  honoured 
protection :  I  now  obey  her  dictates. 

Though  much  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I  do  not  approach  you,  my  Lords  and 
Gentlemen,  in  the  usual  style  of  dedication,  to  thank  you  for  past  favours :  that  path  is 
so  hackneyed  by  prostituted  learning  that  honest  rusticity  is  ashamed  of  it.  Nor  do  T 
present  this  address  with  the  venal  soul  of  a  servile  author,  looking  for  a  continuation 
of  those  favours :  I  was  bred  to  the  plough,  and  am  independent.  I  come  to  claim  the 
common  Scottish  name  with  you,  my  illustrious  countrymen ;  and  to  tell  the  world  that 
T  glory  in  the  title.  I  come  to  congratulate  my  country  that  the  blood  of  her  ancient 
heroe5  still  runs  uncontaminated,  and  that  from  your  courage,  knowledge,  and  public 

(7) 


viii  DEDICATION. 


spirit,  she  may  expect  protection,  wealth,  and  liberty.  In  the  last  place,  I  come  to 
proflfer  my  warmest  wishes  to  the  great  fountain  of  honour,  the  Monarch  of  the  universe, 
for  your  welfare  and  happiness. 

When  you  go  forth  to  waken  the  echoes,  in  the  ancient  and  favourite  amusement 
of  your  forefathers,  may  Pleasure  ever  be  of  your  party :  and  may  social  joy  await  your 
return !  When  harassed  in  courts  or  camps  with  the  jostlings  of  bad  men  and  bad 
measures,  may  the  honest  consciousness  of  injured  worth  attend  your  return  to  your 
native  seats  j  and  may  domestic  happiness,  with  a  smiling  welcome,  meet  you  at  your 
gates  I  May  corruption  shrink  at  your  kindling  indignant  glance ;  and  may  tyranny 
in  the  ruler,  and  licentiousness  in  the  people,  equally  find  you  an  inexorable  foe ! 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
With  the  sincerest  gratitude  and  highest  respect. 
My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 

Your  most  devoted  humble  servant, 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

Edinbuegh,  April  4,  1787. 


TMIWi'i  hriTiiifWii 


PREFACE, 


I  CANNOT  give  to  my  country  this  edition  of  one  of  its  favourite  poets,  Tvithout 
stating  that  I  have  deliberately  omitted  several  pieces  of  verse  ascribed  to  Burns 
by  other  editors,  who  too  hastily,  and  I  think  on  insufficient  testimony,  admitted  them 
among  his  works.  K I  am  unable  to  share  in  the  hesitation  expressed  by  one  of  them 
on  the  authorship  of  the  stanzas  On  "  Pastoral  Poetry,"  I  can  as  little  share  in  the  feel- 
ings with  which  they  have  intruded  into  the  charmed  circle  of  his  poetry  such  composi- 
tions as  "  Lines  on  the  Ruins  of  Lincluden  College,"  "  Verses  on  the  Destruction  of  the 
Woods  of  Drumlanrig,"  "  Verses  written  on  a  Marble  Slab  in  the  Woods  of  Aberfeldy," 
and  those  entitled  "  The  Tree  of  Liberty."  These  productions,  with  the  exception  of 
the  last,  were  never  seen  by  any  one  even  in  the  handwriting  of  Burns,  and  are  one  and 
all  wanting  in  that  original  vigour  of  language  and  manliness  of  sentiment  which  dis- 
tinguish his  poetry.  With  respect  to  "The  Tree  of  Liberty^'  in  particular,  a  subject 
dear  to  the  heart  of  the  Bard,  can  any  one  conversant  with  his  genius  imagine  that  he 
welcomed  its  growth  or  celebrated  its  fruit  with  such  "  capon  craws"  as  these  ? 

"IJpo'  this  tree  there  grows  sic  fruit, 

Its  virtues  a'  can  tell,  man; 
It  raises  man  aboon  the  brute, 

It  mak's  him  ken  himsel',  man. 
Gif  ance  the  peasant  taste  a  bit, 

He's  greater  than  a  lord,  man, 
An'  wi'  a  beggar  shares  a  mite 

0'  a'  he  can  afford,  man." 

There  are  eleven  stanzas,  of  which  the  best,  compared  with  the  "  A  man's  a  man  for  a' 
that"  of  Bums,  sounds  like  a  cracked  pipkin  against  the  "  heroic  clang"  of  a  Damascus 
blade.  That  it  is  extant  in  the  handwriting  of  the  poet  cannot  be  taken  as  a  proof  that 
it  is  his  own  composition,  against  the  internal  testimony  of  utter  want  of  all  the  marks 
Dy  which  we  know  him — the  Burns-stamp,  so  to  speak,  which  is  visible  on  all  that 
ever  came  from  his  pen.  Misled  by  his  handwriting,  I  inserted  in  my  former  edition 
of  his  works  an  epitaph,  beginning 

"  Here  lies  a  rose,  a  budding  rose," 

(9) 


PREFACE. 


the  composition  of  Shenstone,  and  which  is  to  he  found  in  the  churchyard  of  Hales- 
Owen ;  as  it  is  not  included  in  every  edition  of  that  poet's  acknowledged  works,  Burns, 
who  was  an  admirer  of  his  genius,  had,  it  seems,  copied  it  with  his  own  hand,  and  hence 
my  error.  If  I  hesitated  about  the  exclusion  of  "The  Tree  of  Liberty,"  and  its 
three  false  brethren,  I  could  have  no  scruples  regarding  the  fine  song  of  "  Evan  Banks," 
claimed  and  justly  for  Miss  Williams  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  the  humorous  song  called 
"  Shelah  O'Neal,"  composed  by  the  late  Sir  Alexander  Boswell.  When  I  have  stated 
that  I  have  arranged  the  Poems,  the  Songs,  and  the  Letters  of  Burns,  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  the  order  in  which  they  were  written ;  that  I  have  omitted  no  piece  of  either 
verse  or  prose  which  bore  the  impress  of  his  hand,  nor  included  any  by  which  his  high 
reputation  would  likely  be  impaired,  I  have  said  all  that  seems  necessary  to  be  said,  save 
that  the  following  letter  came  too  late  for  insertion  in  its  proper  place :  it  is  characteristic 
and  worth  a  place  anywhere. 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 


TO  DR.  ARCHIBALD  LAURIE. 

Mossgiel,  IZth  Nov.  1786 
Dear  Sir, 

I  have  along  with  this  sent  the  two  volumes  of  Ossian,  with  the  remaining  volume  of  the  Songs. 
Ossian  I  am  not  in  such  a  hurry  about ;  but  I  wish  the  Songs,  with  the  volume  of  the  Scotch  Poets, 
returned  as  soon  as  they  can  conveniently  be  dispatched.  If  they  are  left  at  Mr.  Wilson,  the 
bookseller's  shop,  Kilmarnock,  they  will  easily  reach  me. 

INIy  most  respectful  compliments  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Laurie ;  and  a  Poet's  warmest  wishes  for 
their  happiness  to  the  young  ladies  ;  particularly  the  fair  musician,  whom  I  think  much  better 
qualified  than  ever  David  was,  or  could  be,  to  charm  an  evil  spirit  out  of  a  Saul. 

Indeed,  it  needs  not  the  feelings  of  a  poet  to  be  interested  in  the  welfare  of  one  of  .the  sweetesl 
scenes  of  domestic  peace  and  kindred  love  that  ever  I  saw ;  as  I  think  the  peaceful  unity  of  St. 
'Margaret's  Hill  can  only  be  excelled  by  the  harmonious  concord  of  the  Apocalyptic  Zion. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

Robert  Burns. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


The  Lifb  of  Bobert  Burns xxiii 

Preface  to  the  Kilmarnock  Edition  of  1786 lix 

Dedication  to  the  Edinburgh  Edition  of  1787 


1^ 


POEMS 


FA6B 

Winter.    A  Dirge 61 

Che  Death  and  dying  Words  of  poor  Mailie  . 
Poor  Mailie's  Elegy  .... 

First  Epistle  to  Davie,  a  brother  Poet   . 

Second 

'I  llfAddress  to  the  Dei! 

The"aald  Fanner's  New-year  Morning  Salutation 
to  hia  auld  Mare  Maggie         ...        67 

ToaHaggia 68 

A  Prayer  under  the  pressure  of  violent  Anguish  69 
A  Prayer  in  the  prospect  of  Death  .  .  69 
Stanzas  on  the  same  occasion  .        .        .69 

A  Winter  Night 70 

Bemorse.    A  Fragment 71 

«  ^to^he  Jolly  Beggars.    A  Cantata     ...        71 
Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook.    A  True  Story 
The  Twa  Herds ;  or,  the  Holy  Tulzie     . 

_Jjgoly  WilUe's  Prayer 79 

Epitaph  on  fioly  Willie  .... 

The  Inventory ;  in  answer  to  a  mandate  by  the 

surveyor  of  taxes 

»|^ji^he  Holy  Fair 


PAQX 

To  J.  Lapraik.'    Third  Epistle  .        .         100 

To  William  Simpson,  Ochiltree  .  .  .  101 
Address  to  an  illegitimate  Child  .        .         103 

Nature's  Law.     A  Poem  humbly  inscribed  to 

a.  H.,  Esq 103 

To  the  Bev.  John  M'Math       .        .        .        .104 

^^0  a  Mouse 105 

ScotchDrink 106 

The  Author's  earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the  Scotch 

Bepresentatives  of  the  House  of  Commons  107 
Address  to  the  unco  Guid,  or  the  rigidly  Bight- 

eous 110 

Tam  Samson's  Elegy  .        .        .        .         Ill 

Lament,  occasioned  by  the  unfortunate  issue  of 


95 


"ffhe  Ordination          ..... 
The  Calf 

Xjo^James  Smith 

[Tho  Vision 

♦  ^PftUoyeen 

Man  was  made  to  Mourn.    A  Dirge 

To  Buin 96 

To  John  Goudie  of  Kilmarnock,  on  the  publica- 

tioB  of  his  Essays 97 

\  To  J.  Lapraik,  an  old  Scottish  Bard.     First 

'  ^Iistle (9J^: 

To  J.  Lapraik.    Second  Epistle      ...      99 


a  Friend's  Amour         ....  112 

76  I  Despondency.    An  Ode           ....  113 

7e']^he^ Cotter's  Saturday  Night        .        .        .  Ill 

The  first  Psalm 117 

The  first  six  Verses  of  the  ninetieth  Psalm  .  118 

^JtS^  Mountain  Daisy ^118 

81     Epistle  to  a  young  Friend            .        .        .  il9 
^To  a,  Louse,  on  seeing  one  on  a  Lady's  Bonnet 

at  Church 120 

EpisUe  to  J.  Bankine,  enclosing  some  Poems  121 

On  a  Scotch  Bard,  gone  to  the  West  Indies  122 

The  Farewell 123 

Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  my  Pooms,  pre- 
sented to  an  old  Sweetheart  then  married  123 
A  Dedication  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.  .  123 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Bobert  Buisseaux  .  125 
Letter  to  James  Tennant  of  Glenconner  .  125 
On  the  Birth  of  a  posthumous  Child             .  126 

To  Miss  Cruikshank 126 

WHlie  Chalmers 127 

(11) 


xu 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK 

Verses  left  in  the  room  where  he  slept  .  .  128 
To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  recommending  a  boy  128 
To  Mr.  M'Adam,  of  Craigen-gillan  .  .  129 
Answer  to  a  Poetical  Epistle  sent  to  the  Author 

by  a  Tailor 129 

To  J.  Rankine.  "  I  am  a  keeper  of  the  law."  130 
Lines  written  on  a  Bank-note       .        .         .        130 

A  Dream 130 

A  Bard's  Epitaph  .         .         .         .         .        (^2 

The  Twa  Dogs.     A  Tale  ....     l32 

Lines  on  meeting  with  Lord  Daer        .         .         135 
I   Address  to  Edinburgh  .         .         .        •136 

\  Epistle  to  Major  Logan        ....         137 
"V^  The  Brigs  of  Ayr  .....     138 

On  the  Death  of  Robert  Dundas,  Esq.,  of  Amis- 
ton,  late  Lord  President  of  the  Court  of 

Session 141 

On  reading  in  a  Newspaper  the  Death  of  John 

M'Leod,  Esq 141 

To  Miss  Logan,  with  Beattie's  Poems      .         .     142 
The  American  War.     A  Fragment       .         .         142 
The  Dean  of  Faculty.     A  new  Ballad      .         .     143 
To  a  Lady,  wifil  a  Present  of  a  Pair  of  Drinking- 
glasses       .......     144 

To  Clarinda 144 

Verses  written  under  the  Portrait  of  the  Poet 

Fergusson  144 

Prologue  spoken  by  Mr.  Woods,  on  his  Benefit- 
night,  Monday,  April  16,  1787       .         .         145 

Sketch.     A  Character 145 

To  Mr.  Scott,  of  Wauchope  .         .         .         145i 

Epistle  to  William  Creech  ....  146 
The  humble  Petition  of  Bruar- Water,  to  the 

noble  Duke  of  Athole  .  .  .  .147 
On  scaring  some  Water-fowl  in  Loch  Turit  148 

Written  with  a  pencil,  over  the  chimney-piece, 
in  the  parlour  of  the  Inn  at  Kenmure,  Tay- 

mouth 149 

Written  with  a  pencil,  standing  by  the  Fall  of 

Fyers,  near  Loch  Ness  ....  149 
To  Mr.  William  Tytler,  with  the  present  of  the 

Bard's  picture 150 

Written   in   Friars-Carse   Hermitage,   on  the 

banks  of  Nith,  June,  1780.  First  Copy  .  150 
The  same.  December,  1788.  Second  Copy  151 
To  Captain  Riddel,  of  Glenriddel.     Extempore 

lines  on  returning  a  Newspaper  .  .  152 
A  Mother's  Lament  for  the  Death  of  her  Son  .  152 
First  Epistle  to  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintray  152 
On  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter  Blair  .     153 

Epistle  to  Hugh  Parker  ....  154 
Lines,  intended  to  be  written  under  a  Noble 

Earl's  Picture 155 

Elegy  on  the  year  1788.     A  Sketch  .        .     155 

Address  to  the  Tootb*che  ....  155 
Ode.     Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Oswald,  of 

Auchencruive 156 

Fragment  inscribed  to  the  Right  Hon.  C.  J.  Fox  156 


PAoa 

On  seeing  a  wounded  Hare  limp  by  me,  which  a 

Fellow  had  just  shot  ....  157 
To  Dr.  Blacklock.    In  answer  to  a  Letter    .        158 

Delia.    An  Ode 159 

To  John  M'Murdo,  Esq 159 

Prologue,  spoken  at  the  Theatre,  Dumfries,  Ist 

January,  1790 159 

Scots  Prologue,  for  Mr.  Sutherland's  Benefit- 
night,  Dumfries 160 

Sketch.  New-year's  Day.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop  160 
To  a  Gentleman  who  had  sent  him  a  Newspaper, 

and  ofi"ered  to  continue  it  free  of  expense  161 
The  Kirk's  Alarm.  A  Satire.  First  Version  162 
The  Kirk's  Alarm.    A  Ballad.    Second  Version  163 

Peg  Nicholson 165 

On  Captain  Matthew  Henderson,  a  gentleman 
who  held  the  patent  for  his  honours  imme- 
diately from  Almighty  God       .         .         .     165 
The  Five  Carlins.     A  Scots  Ballad      .        .        167 
The  Laddies  by  the  Banks  o'  Nith  .         .     168 

Epistle  to  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintray,  on 
the  close  of  the  disputed  Election  between 
Sir  James  Johnstone,  and  Captain  Miller, 
for  the  Dumfries  district  of  Boroughs  .  169 
On  Captain  Grose's  Peregrination  through  Scot- 
land, collecting  the  Antiquities  of  that  king-      » 

dom 170 

Written  in  a  wrapper,  enclosing  a  letter  to  Cap- 
tain Grose 171 

^am  O'Shanter.    A  Tale         ....     17J' 
Address  of  Beelzebub  to  the  President  of  the 

Highland  Society 174 

To  John  Taylor  175 

Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  on  the  approach 

of  Spring 175 

The  Whistle 176 

Elegy  on  Miss  Burnet  of  Monboddo  .  .  178 
Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencaim  .  .  178 
Lines  sent  to  Sir  John  Whitefoord,  Bart.,  of 

Whitefoord,  with  the  foregoing  Poem  .  179 
Address  to  the  Shade  of  Thomson,  on  crowning 

his  Bust  at  Ednam  with  bays  .  .  179 
To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintray  .  .  180 
To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintray,  on  receiving 

a  favour 181 

A  Vision 181 

To  John  Maxwell,  of  Terraughty,  on  his  birthday  182 
The  Rights  of  Women,  an  occasional  Address 
spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle,  on  her  benefit- 
night,  Nov.  26,  1792     ....        182 
Monody  on  a  Lady  famed  for  her  caprice        .     183 
Epistle  from  Esopus  to  Maria       .         .         .        184 
Poem  on  Pastoral  Poetry         ....     185 
Sonnet,  written  on  the  25th  January,  1793,  the 
birthday  of  the  Author,  on  hearing  a  thrush 
sing  in  a  morning  walk  .        .        .        18S 

Sonnet  on  the  death  of  Robert  Riddel,  Esq.,  of 
Glenriddel,  April,  1794  .        .        18« 


CONTENTS. 


xui 


PAOB 

Impromptu  on  Mrs.  Riddel's  birthday     .        .    186 
Liberty.    A  Fragment         ....        186 

Verses  to  a  young  Lady 186 

The  Vowels.    A  Tale 187 

Verses  to  John  Rankine          ....     187 
On   Sensibility.    To  my  dear  and  much-hon- 
oured friend,  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop       .     188 
Lines  sent  to  a  Gentleman  whom  he  had  of- 
fended     . 188 

Address  spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle  on  her 

Beneft-night 188 

On  seeing  Miss  fontenelle  in  a  favouiite  cha- 
racter      .        .  ....    189 


18& 


To  Chloris 

Poetical  Inscription  for  an  Altar  to  Independ- 
ence       189 

The  Heron  Ballads.  Ballad  First  .  .  .190 
The  Heron  Ballads.  Ballad  Second  .  .  190 
The  Heron  Ballads.     Ballad  Third  .         .     192 

Poem  addressed  to  Mr.  Mitchell,  Collector  of 

Excise,  Dumfries,  1796     .        .        .        .193 
To  Miss  Jessy  Lewars,  Dumfries,  with  Johnson's 

Musical  Museum 193 

Poem  on  Life,  addressed  to  Colonel  de  Peyster, 

Dumfries,  1796 193 


EPITAPHS,  EPIGRAMS,  FRAGMENTS,  &c. 


PASS 

On  the  Author's  Father        ....  194 
On  R.  A.,  Esq.         .        .        .        .        .        .194 

On  a  Friend 194 

For  Gavin  Hamilton 194 

On  wee  Johnny 195 

On  John  Dove,  Innkeeper,  Mauchline     .        .  195 

On  a  Wag  in  Mauchline       ....  195 

On  a  celebrated  ruling  Elder  ....  195 

On  a  noisy  Polemic      .        .        .        ;        .  195 

On  Miss  Jean  Scott 195 

On  a  henpecked  Country  Squire  .        .        .  195 

On  the  same 196 

On  the  same 196 

The  Highland  Welcome 196 

On  William  SmelUe 196 

Written  on  a  window  of  the  Inn  at  Carron      .  196 

The  Book-worms 196 

Lines  on  Stirling 197 

The  Reproof 197 

The  Reply       . 197 

Lines  written  under  the  Picture  of  the> celebrated 

Miss  Bums 197 

Extempore  in  the  Court  of  Session       .        .  197 

The  henpecked  Husband         ....  197 

Written  at  Inverary 198 

On  Elphinston's  Translation  of  Maj*tiarn  Epi- 
grams              198 

Inscription  on  the  Head-stone  of  Feigusson    .  198 

On  a  Schoolmaster 198 

A  Grace  before  Dinner 198 

A  Grace  before  Meat            ....  198 

On  Wat            ......  198 

On  Captain  Francis  Grose    ...  199 

Impromptu  to  Miss  Ainslie              .        .        .  199 

The  Kirk  of  Lamington        ....  199 

The  League  and  Covenant       .        .        .  199 


■:2  PAOK 

Written  on  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  Inn  at  MoflEat  199 
Spoken  on  being  appointed  to  the  Excise  .  199 
Lines  on  Mrs.  Eemble         .        .        .        .        199 

To  Mr.  Syme 200 

To  Mr.  Syme,  with  a  present  of  a  dozen  of 

porter 200 

A  Grace 200 

Inscription  on  a  goblet 200 

The  Invitation 200 

The  Creed  of  Poverty  .  .  "  .  .  .200 
Written  in  a  Ladjr's  pocket-book  .        .        200 

The  Parson's  Looks 200 

The  Toad-eater  201 

On  Robert  Riddel  201 

The  Toast 201 

On  a  Person  nicknamed  the  Marquis  .  .  201 
Lines  written  on  a  window  .        .        .        201 

Lines  written  on  a  window  of  the  Globe  Tavern, 

Dumfries 201 

The  Selkirk  Grace 202 

To  Dr.  Maxwell,  on  Jessie  Staig's  Recovery        202 

Epitaph  202 

Epitaph  on  William  Nicol  ...        202 

On  the  Death  of  a  Lapdog,  named  Echo  .    202 

On  a  noted  Coxcomb 202 

On  seeing  the  beautiful  Seat  of  Lord  Galloway    202 

On  the  same 203 

On  the  same 203 

To  the  same,  on  the  Author  being  threatened 

with  his  resentment  ....    203 

On  a  Country  Laird 203 

On  John  Bushby      ......    203 

The  true  loyal  Natives         ....        203 

On  a  Suicide  203 

Extempore,  pinned  on  a  Lady's  coach  .        203 

Lines  to  John  Rankine  ....    204 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


Jessy  Lewars       ,        .        .        . 
The  Toast        .... 
On  Miss  Jessy  Lewars 
On  the  recovery  of  Jessy  Lewars 


PAGX 

204 
204 
204 
204 


Tarn  the  Chapman 204 

«  Here's  a  bottle  and  an  honest  friend"   ,        .  206 

*'  Tho'  fiokle  fortune  has  deceived  me"         .  205 

To  John  Kennedy  205 


PAOX 

To  the  same 20i 

"  There's  naethin'  like  the  honest  nappy"  .  205 
On  the  blank  leaf  of  a  work  by  Hannah  More, 

presented  by  Mrs.  C 206 

To  the  Men  and  Brethren  of  the  Masonic  Lodge 

atTarbolton 206 

Impromptu 206 

Prayer  for  Adam  Armour         ....    206 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS, 


PAOK 

Handsome  Nell 207 

Luckless  Fortune 208 

"I  dream'd  I  lay  where  flowers  were  springing"  208 
Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  day  .        .        .        208 

"My  father  was  a  farmer  upon  the  Carrick 

border" 209 

^ohn  Barleycorn.    A  Ballad  .        .        .        .210 

The  Rigs  o'  Barley 210 

Montgomery's  Peggy 211 


Tho  Mauchline  Lady 
•The  Highland  Lassie       .        .        .        , 

Peggy         

The  rantin'  Dog  the  Daddie  o't 

"  My  heart  was  ance  as  blithe  and  free" 

"^  My  Nannie  0 

A  Fragment.     "  One  night  as  I  did  wander" 
Bonnie  Peggy  Alison       ... 
v.Green  grow  the  Rashes,  0   . 
My  Jean  ....        * 

Robin 

"  Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven's  wing" 
"  0  leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles" 
Young  Peggy  .... 

The  Cure  for  all  Care 

Eliza 

The  Sons  of  Old  Killie 
And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  doat 
The  Farewell  to  the  Brethren  of  St.  James's 
Lodge,  Tarbolton  .... 

On  Cessnock  Banks 

Mary 

The  Lass  of  Ballochmyle      .... 

"  The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast"     . 

"  0  whar  did  ye  get  that  hauver  meal  bannock?" 


211 
211 
212 
213 
213 
213 
214 
214 
214 
215 
215 
216 
216 
216 
217 
217 
217 
218 

218 
219 
220 
220 
221 
221 

The  Joyful  Widower 221 

*'  0  Whistle,  and  Pll  come  to  you,  my  lad"  .  222 
"  I  am  my  mammy's  ae  bairn"  .  .  .  222 
TheBirksof  Aberfeldy        ....        222 

Macpherson's  Farewell  223 

Braw,  braw  Lads  of  Galla  Water  .         .        223 

"Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ?"         .    224 


Strathallan's  Lament   .... 

My  Hoggie 

Her  Daddie  forbad,  her  Minnie  forbad 

Up  in  the  Morning  early 

The  young  Highland  Rover 

Hey  the  dusty  Miller 

Duncan  Davison  .... 

Theniel  Menzies'  bonnie  Mary 

The  Banks  of  the  Devon 

Weary  fa'  you,  Duncan  Gray  . 

The  Ploughman  .... 

Landlady,  count  the  Lawin 

"  Raving  winds  around  her  blowing"   . 

"  How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night" 

Musing  on  tho  roaring  Ocean 

Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she      . 

The  blude  red  rose  at  Yule  may  blaw  . 

O'er  the  Water  to  Charlie 

A  Rosebud  by  my  early  walk 

Rattlin',  roarin'  Willie     . 

Where  braving  angry  Winter's  Storms 

Tibbie  Dunbar         .... 

Bonnie  Castle  Gordon 

My  Harry  was  a  gallant  gay 

The  Tailor  fell  trough  the  bed,  thimbles  an' 

Ay  Waukin  0  ! 

Beware  o'  Bonnie  Ann 
The  Gardener  wi'  his  paidle    . 
Blooming  Nelly    .... 
The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns 
My  Love  she's  but  a  lassie  yet 
Jamie,  come  try  me 
Go  fetch  to  me  a  Pint  o'  Wine 
The  Lazy  Mist         ... 
0  mount  and  go  ... 

•Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 
Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't 
0  were  I  on  Parnassus'  Hill 
"  There's  a  youth  in  this  city" 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands    . 
John  Anderson,  my  Jo  .        . 


PAGX 

224 
2241 
224 
225 
225 
225 
226 
226 
226 
227 
227 
228 
228 
228 
229 
229 
229 
230 
230 
230 
231 
231 
231 
232 
i'  232 
232 
233 
233 
233 
234 
234 
234 
235 
235 
235 
235 
236 
236 
237 
237 
237 


CONTENTS. 


PA6B 

Awa,  Whigs,  awa 238 

Ca'  the  Ewes  to  the  Knowes         .        .        .  238 

Merry  hae  I  been  teethin'  a  heckle          .        .  239 

The  Braes  of  Ballochmyle    ....  239 

/•To  Mary  in  Heaven 239 

Eppie  Adair 240 

The  Battle  of  SherrifiF-muir          ...  240 

Young  Jockey  was  the  blithest  lad          .        .  241 

0  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'  maut  .  .  241 
The  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,  0           ...  241 

1  gaed  a  waefu'  gate  yestreen      .        .        .  242 

The  Banks  of  Nith 242 

Tarn  Glen .242 

Frae  the  friends  and  land  I  love     .        .        .  243 

Craigie-bum  Wood 243 

Cock  up  your  Beaver 244 

0  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  beauty  .  244 
Gudowife,  count  the  Lawin  ....  244 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame  ^^ 
The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa          .        .        .  245 

1  do  confess  thou  art  sae  fair  .  .  .  245 
Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide  246 
It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonnie  face  .  .  .  246 
When  I  think  on  the  happy  days  .  .  .  247 
Whan  I  sleep  I  dream  ....  247 
"  I  murder  hate  by  field  or  flood"  .  .  247 
O.gude  ale  comes  and  gude  ale  goes    .        .  247 

Bobin  shure  in  hairst 248 

Bonnie  Peg 248 

Gudeen  to  you,  Kimmer          ....  248 

Ah,  Chloris,  since  itmay  nabe            .        .  249 

Eppie  M'Nab 249 

Wha  is  that  at  my  bower- door     .        .        .  249 

What  can  a  young  lassie  do  wi'  an  auld  man  .  250 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing    .        .  250 

The  tither  morn  when  I  forlorn       .        .        ,  250 

■fAe  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  .        .        .  251 

Lovely  Davies          .*....  251 

The  weary  Fund  o'  Tow       ....  252 

Naebody 252 

An  0  for  ane  and  twenty,  Tarn    .        .        .  252 

0  Kenmure's  on  and  awa,  Willie     .        .        .  253 

The  Collier  Laddie 253 

Nithsdale's  Welcome  Hame          .        .        .  254^ 

As  I  was  a-wand'ring  ae  Midsummer  e'enin    .  254' 

Bessy  and  her  Spinning-wheel     .        .        ,  254 

The  Posie 255 

The  Country  Lass 255 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza      ....  256 

Ye  Jacobites  by  name          ....  256 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Boon    .  •       .        .  257 

^Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Boon    .        .  257 

Willie  Wastle 257 

0  Lady  Mary  Ann 258 

Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation           .        .  258 

The  Carle  of  Kellyburn  braes      ...  259 

Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss         .        .        .  260 

Lady  Onlie 260 


The  Chevalier's  Lament 
Song  of  Death      .... 
yiFlow  gently,  sweet  Afton 
Bonnie  Bell 

Hey  ca'  thro*,  ca*  thro'     . 
The  Gallant  weaver 
The  deuks  dang  o'er  my  Daddie 
She's  fair  and  fause 
The  Deil  cam'  fiddling  thro'  the  town 
The  lovely  Lass  of  Lavemess 
*0  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee 
Had  I  the  wyte  she  bade  me  . 
Coming  through  the  rye 
Young  Jamie,  pride  of  a'  the  plain 
Out  over  the  Forth  I  look  to  the  north 
The  Lass  of  Ecclefechan 
The  Cooper  o'  Cuddie 
For  the  sake  of  somebody 
I  coft  a  stane  o'  haslock  woo 
The  lass  that  made  the  bed  for  me 
Sae  far  awa  .... 

I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town 
0  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town 
0  May,  thy  morn     .         .         . 
Lovely  Polly  Stewart 
Bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie 
Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire 
Cassilis'  Banks         .... 
To  thee,  lov'd  Nith 
Bannocks  o'  Barley 
Hee  Balou !  my  sweet  wee  Donald 
Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear's  in  my 
Here's  his  health  in  water 
My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form 
Gloomy  December 

My  lady's  gown,  there's  gairs  upon  *t 
Amang  the  trees,  where  humming  be( 
The  gowden  locks  of  Anna 
My  ain  kind  dearie,  0 
Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary 
She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing 
Bonny  Leslie  .... 

^  iJTjjghjfinil  Mniy — 

Auld  Rob  Morris     .... 
'Duncan  Gray        .... 
0  poortith  cauld,  and  restless  love 
Galla  Water         .... 
Lord  Gregory  .... 

Mary  Morison  .... 
Wandering  Willie.  First  Version 
Wandering  Willie.  Last  Version 
Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh ! 

Jessie 

The  poor  and  honest  sodger    . 
Meg  o*  the  Mill 
Blithe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill 
Logan  Water        .        .        •        . 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

281 


283 
283 
283 
284 
284 
285 
286 


"  0  were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair'*       , 
Bonnie  Jear.         .         .         .         .         . 

Phillis  the  fair 

Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore 
By  Allan  stream  .... 

0  Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad 
Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander 
Oorae,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast 

Daintie  Davie 

Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled.  First  Version  285 
Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled.  Second  Version  286 
Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrives  .         .     287 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie      .        .        .        287 

Auld  lang  syne 287 

"  Where  are  the  joys  I  have  met  in  the  morning"  288 
"  Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure"        .        .        .    288 

Nancy 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife 
Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ?       .         .         . 
But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green  . 
"  Could  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains" 
Here's  to  thy  health,  my  bonnie  lass 
t  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king 
0  steer  her  up  and  baud  her  gaun  [, 

0  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me 
0  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 
The  Banks  of  Cree       .... 
On  the  seas  and  far  away 
Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowea 
Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets    . 
0  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ?     . 
How  lang  and  dreary  is  the  night  , 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 
The  Lover's  Morning  Salute  to  his  Mistress 
My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves 
Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe 
Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks 


289 
289 
290 
290 
290 
291 
291 
291 
292 
292 


293 
294 
294 
294 
295 
295 


PAOl 

Farewell,  thou  stream,  that  winding  flows       .    296 
0  Philly,  happy  be  the  day  ...        297 

Contented  wi'  little  and  cantie  wi'  mair  .    297 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy     .        .        298 

My  Nannie's  awa  298 

0  wha  is  she  that  lo'es  me    ....        299 

Caledonia 299 

0  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass  ....        300 

The  Fete  Champetre 300 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa       .        .        301 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that 301 

Craigieburn  Wood        .      A         .        .        .        302 
0  lassie,  art  thou  sleeping  yet  .        .        .    302 

0  tell  na  me  o'  wind  and  rain      .        .        .        303 
The  Dumfries  Volunteers         .        ,  .303 

Address  to  the  Wood-lark  .  .        304 

On  Chloris  being  ill 304 

Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 

reckon  

'Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  een  was  my  ruin 

How  cruel  are  the  parents 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion 

0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie 

Now  Spring  has  clad  the  grove  in  green 

0  bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier 

Forlorn  my  love,  no  comfort  near 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  toe  lang  glen 

Chloris  ...*... 

The  Highland  Widow's  Lament 

To  General  Dumourier  .... 

Peg-a- Ramsey  

There  was  a  bonnie  lass 

0  Mally's  aeek,  Mally's  sweet 

Hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher 

Jessy.     "  Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  We  dear" 

Fairest  Maid  on  Devon  banks         ... 


304 
305 
305 
305 
306 
306 
307 
307 
307 
308 
308 
309 
309 
309 
309 
310 
310 
311 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE, 


1781. 

No.  I.  To  William  Burness.  His  health  a 
little  better,  but  tired  of  life.  The  Revela- 
tions   311 

1783. 

n.  To  Mr.  John  Murdoch.    His  present  studies 

and  temper  of  mind  ....     312 

IIL  To  Mr.  James  Burness.  His  father's  ill- 
ness, and  sad  state  of  the  country        .        .    313 

rV.  To  Miss  E.    Love 314 

V.  To  Miss  E.    Love 314 

VL  To  Miss  E.    Love 315 

VII.  To  Miss  E.     On  her  refusal  of  his  hand      316 
^'"111.  To  Robert  Riddel,   Esq.     Observations 
9n  poetry  and  human  life    ....     316 


1784. 

IX.  To  Mr.  James  Burness.    On  the  death  of  his 
father  322 

X.  To  Mr.  James  Burness.    Account  ef  the 
Buchanites 322 

XI.  To  Miss .    With  a  book  .        .    323 

1786. 
Xn.  To  Mr.  John  Richmond.    His  progress 

in  poetic  composition S23 

XIII.  To  Mr.  John  Kennedy.     The  Cotter's 

Saturday  Night  324 

XrV.  To  Mr.   Robert  Muir.     Enclosing   Ins 

"  Scotch  Drink" 824 

XV.  To  Mr.  Aiken.  Enclosing  a  stanza  on  the 

blank  leaf  of  a  book  by  Hannah  More  324 


CONTENTS. 


xvu 


PA6B 

XVI.  To  Mr.  M'Whinnie,     Subscriptions        .    324 

XVII.  To  Mr.  John  Kennedy.  Enclosing  "The 
Gowan"       • 326 

XVIII.  To  Mon.  James  Smith.  His  voyage 
to  the  West  Indies 325 

XIX.  To  Mr,  John  Kennedy.  His  poems  in 
the  press.     Subscriptions      ....    325 

XX.  To  Mr.   David  Brice.     Jean  Armour's 
return, — printing  his  poems  .         .        .     326 

^  XXI.  To  Mr.  Robert  Aiken.    Distress  of  mind    326 
/[   XXII.  To  Mr.  John  Richmond.    Jean  Armour    327 

XXIII.  To  John  Ballantyne,  Esq.  Aiken's  cold- 
ness. His  marriage-lines  destroyed      .         .     328 

XXIV.  To  Mr.  David  Brice.  Jean  Armour. 
West  Indies 328 

XXV.  To  Mr.  John  Ricnmond.  West  Indies 
The  Armours 328 

XXVI.  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir.  Enclosing  "The 
Calf"    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .329 

XXVII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Thanks  for  her  notice. 
Sir  William  Wallace 320 

Z  XVIII.  To  Mr.  John  Kennedy.    Jamaica  .    330 

XXIX.  To  Mr.  James  Burness.  His  departure 
uncertain 330 

XXX.  To  Miss  Alexander.  «  The  Lass  of  Bal- 
^^chmyle"' 330 

■*^XXI.  To  Mrs.  Stewart,  of  Stair  and  Afton. 

Enclosing  some  songs.     Miss  Alexander      .     331 

XXXII.  Proclamation  in  the  name  of  the  Muses  332 

XXXIII.  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir.  Enclosing  "  Tarn 
Samson."     His  Edinburgh  expedition  .     332 

XXXIV.  To  Dr.  Mackenzie.  Enclosing  the 
verses  on  dining  with  Lord  Daer  .         .     332 

XXXV.  To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.  Rising  fame. 
Patronage 333 

XXXVI.  To  John  Ballantyne,  Esq.  His  patrons 
and  patronesses.     The  Lounger  .        .    333 

XXXVn.  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir.  A  note  of 
thanks.  Talks  of  sketching  the  history  of 
his  life 334 

XXXVIII.  To  Mr.  William  Chalmers.  A  hu- 
morous sally 334 

1787. 

XXXIX.  To  the  Earl  of  Eglinton.  Thanks  for 
his  patronage 835 

XL.  To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.     Love  .    335 

XLI.  To  John  Ballantyne,  Esq.     Mr.  Miller's 

oflfer  of  a  farm 335 

XLII.  To  John  Ballantyne,  Esq.    Enclosing 

"  The  Banks  o' Doon."  First  Copy  .  .336 
XLIII.  To  Mrs.  miop.  Dr.  Moore  and  Lord 

Eglinton.  His  Muation  in  Edinburgh  .  336 
XLIV.  To  Dr.  Moore.    Acknowledgments  for 

his  notice 33^ 

XLV.  To  the  Rev.  G.  Lowrie.  Reflections  on  his 

situation  in  life.     Dr.  Blacklock,  Mackenzie  338 


PASB 

XLVI.  To  Dr.  Moore.    Miss  Williams         .        338 

XLVIL  To  John  Ballantyne,  Esq.  His  portrait 
engraving 339 

XLVIII.  To  the  Earl  of  Glencaim.  Enclosing" 
"Lines  intended  to  be  written  under  a  noble 
Earl's  picture"  33S 

XLIX.  To  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  In  reply  to  a 
letter  of  advice     .        .        .        .        .        .     339 

L.  To  Mr.  James  Candlish.  Still  "the  old 
man  with  his  deeds"     .  ...    3  40 

LI.  To .  On  Fergussor  s  headstone  .    341 

LII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  His  prospects  on  leav- 
ing Edinburgh 341 

LIII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  A  letter  of  acknow- 
ledgment for  the  payment  of  the  subscription     342 

LrV.  To  Mr.  Sibbald.  Thanks  for  his  notice 
in  the  magazine 343 

LV.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Acknowledging  the  present 
of  his  View  of  Society  .        .        .        .343 

LVI.  To  Mr.  Dunlop.     Reply  to  criticisms      .     343 

LVII.  To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Hugh  Blair.  On  leav- 
ing Edinburgh.     Thanks  for  his  kindness  .     344 

LVIII.  To  the  Earl  of  Glencaim.  On  leaving 
Edinburgh 344 

LIX.  To  Mr.  William  Dunbar.  Thanking  him 
for  the  present  of  Spenser's  poems  .     344 

LX.  To  Mr.  James  Johnson.  Sending  a  song 
to  the  Scots  Musical  Museum       .        .        .     345 

LXI.  To  Mr.  William  Creech.  His  tour  on  the 
Border.     Epistle  in  verse  to  Creech     .        .    345 

LXII.  To  Mr.  Patison.     Business  .         .         .345 

LXIII.  To  Mr.  W.  Nicol.  A  ride  described 
in  broad  Scotch 346 

LXrV.  To  Mr.  James  Smith.  Unsettled  in  life. 
Jamaica  346 

LXV.  To  Mr.  W.  Nicol.  Mr.  Miller,  Mr. 
Bumside.     Bought  a  pocket  Milton  .     347 

LXVI.  To  Mr.  James  Candlish.  Seeking  a 
copy  of  Lowe's  poem  of  "  Pompey's  Ghost"  .     347 

LXVIL  To  Robert  Ainslie,  Esq.     His  tour         348 

LXVIIL  To  Mr.  W.  Nicol.     Auchtertyre       .     348 

LXIX.  To  Mr.  Wm.  Cruikshank.  Auchtertyre     348 

LXX.  To  Mr.  James  Smith.     An  adventure  .     349 

LXXI.  To  Mr.  John  Richmond.     His  rambles     350 

LXXII.  To  Mr.  Robert  AinsUe.  Sets  high 
value  on  his  friendship  .         .         .     350 

LXXIII.  To  the  same.  Nithsdale  and  Edin- 
burgh   3fifl 

LXXrV.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Account  of  his  own  life  351 

LXXV.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie.  A  humorous 
letter 357 

LXXVI.  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir.  Stirling,  Ban- 
nockbum 357 

LXXVIL  To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.  Of  Mr. 
Hamilton's  own  family         ....     859 

LXXVIIL  To  Mr.  Walker.  Bruar  Water.  The 
Athole  family  .....    8M 


XVlll 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

LXXIX.  To  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns.    Account  of  his 

Highland  tour  .....     359 

LXXX.  To  Miss  Margaret  Chalmers.  Charlotte 

Hamilton.     Skinner.    Nithsdale  .         .    360 

LXXXI.  To  the  same.   Charlotte  Hamilton,  and 

"  The  Banks  of  the  Devon"  .         .        360 

LXXXII.  To   James   Hoy,  Esq.     Mr.   Nlcol. 

Johnson's  Musical  Museum  .         .         .     361 

LXXXIII.  To  Rev.  John  Skinner.    Thanking 

him  for  his  poetic  compliment  .  .  .  361 
LXXXrV.  To  James  Hoy,  Esq     Song  by  the 

Duke  of  Gordon 362 

LXXXV.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie.  His  friend- 
ship for  him 363 

LXXXVL  TotheEarlofGlencairn.  Requesting 

his  aid  in  obtaining  an  excise  appointment  ,  363 
LXXXVn.  To  James  Dalrymple,  Esq.  Rhyme. 

Lord  Glencairn 363 

LXXXVIII.  To  Charles  Hay,  Esq.   Enclosing 

his  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Lord  President 

Dundas 364 

LXXXIX.  To  Miss  M— n.  Compliments  .  364 
XC.  To  Miss  Chalmers.  Charlotte  Hamilton  .  365 
XCI.  To  the  same.     His  braised  limb.    The 

Bible.     The  Oehel  Hills  .        .        .365 

XCII.  To  the  same.     His  motto — "I  dare." 

His  own  worst  enemy 365 

XCIII.  To  Sir  John  Whitefoord.    Thanks  for 

his  friendship.     Of  poets  .         .         .     366 

XCIV,  To  Miss  Williams.     Comments  on  her 

poem  of  the  Slave  Trade  .         ,         .     366 

XCV.  To  Mr.  Richard  Brown.     Recollections 

of  early  life.     Clarinda  .         .         .368 

XCVI.  To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.     Prayer  for 

his  health  369 

XCVII.   To    Miss  Chalmers.    Complimentary 

poems.     Creech 369 

1788. 

XCVIII,  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Lowness  of  spirits. 
Leaving  Edinburgh 370 

XCIX.  To  the  same.     Religion  .         .370 

C.  To  the  Rev.  John  Skinner.  TuUochgorum. 
Skinner's  Latin 370 

CI.  To  Mr.  Richard  Brown.  His  arrival  in 
Glasgow 371 

CIL  ToMrs.  Rose,  of  Kilravock.  Recollections 
of  Kilravock 371 

OIIL  To  Mr.  Richard  Brown.  Friendship.  The 
pleasures  of  the  present        ....     372 

CIV.  To  Mr.  William  Cruikshank.  EUisland. 
Plans  in  life 372 

CV.  To  Mr,  Robert  Ainslie.  EUisland.  Edin- 
burgh.    Clarinda 373 

C  VI.  To  Mr.  Richard  Brown.  Idleness.  Farming  374 

CVIL  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir.  His  offer  for  Ellis- 
land.     The  close  of  life       .        .        .        .     374 


pi.»a 
CVIII.  To  Miss  Chalmers.    Taken  EUisland. 

Miss  Kennedy 375 

CIX.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop..  Coila's  robe  .  .  375 
ex.  To  Mr.  Richard  Brown.     Apologies.     On 

his  way  to  Dumfries  from  Glasgow  .  .  r75 
CXI.  To  Mr.  Robert  Cleghorn.    Poet  and  fame. 

The  air  of  Captain  O'Kean  .  .  .  .37* 
CXII.  To   Mr.   William  Dunbar.     Foregoing 

poetry  and  wit  for  farming  and  business  .  37d 
CXIII.    To   Miss   Chalmers.     Miss   Kennedy. 

Jean  Armour 377 

CXrV.  To  the  same.  Creech's  ramonred  bank- 
ruptcy   377 

CXV.  To  the  same.  His  entering  the  Excise  377 
CXVI.  ToMrs.  Dunlop.  Farming  and  the  Excise. 

Thanks  for  the  loan  of  Dryden  and  Tasso  .  378 
CXVII.  To  Mr.  James  Smith.    Jocularity.  Jean 

Armour 378 

CXVIII.  To  Professor  Dugald  Stewart.  Enclo- 
sing some  poetic  trifles  ....  379 
CXIX.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.    Dry  den's  Virgil.   His 

preference  of  Dryden  to  Pope  .  .  .  379 
CXX.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie.  His  marriage .  379 
CXXI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     On  the  treatment  of 

servants 380 

CXXn.  Totjiesame.  The  merits  of  Mrs.  Burns  380 
CXXin.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie.     The  warfare 

of  life.  Books.  Religion  .  .  .  .381 
CXXrV.  To  the  same.  Miers'  profiles  ,  .  382 
CXXV.  To  the  same.     Of  the  folly  of  talking 

of  one's  private  affairs  ....     382 

CXXVL  To  Mr.  George  Lockhart.     The  Miss 

Baillies.  Bruar  Water  .  .  .  .383 
CXXVII.  To  Mr.  Peter  Hill.    With  the  present 

of  a  cheese 383 

CXX VIII.  To  Robert  Graham  Esq.,  of  Fintray. 

The  Excise 384 

CXXIX.  To  Mr.  William  Cruikshank.    Creech. 

Lines  written  in  Friar's  Carse  Hermitage  .  385 
CXXX.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Lines  written  at  Friar's 

Carse.  Graham  of  Fintray  .  .  .  385 
CXXXI.  To  the  same.  Mrs.  Bums.  Of  accom- 
plished young  ladies 386 

CXXXII.  To  the  same.    Mrs.  Miller,  of  Dals- 

winton.  "The  Life  and  Age  of  Man."  .  387 
CXXXin.  To  Mr.  Beugo.     Ross  and  "The 

Fortunate  Shepherdess."  ....  388 
CXXXIV.  To  Miss  Chalmers.     Recollections. 

Mrs.  Burns.     Poetry 388 

CXXXV.  To  Mr.  Morison.     Urging  expedition 

with  his  clock  and  other  furniture  for  EUisland  390 
CXXXVI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Mr.  Graham.  Her 

criticisms 390 

CXXXVII.  To  Mr.  Peter  HiU.    Criticism  on  an 

"Address  to  Loch  Lomond."  .  .  .  391 
CXXXVIII.  To  the  Editor  of  the  Star.  Plead- 
ing for  the  line  of  the  Stuarts      .        .        .392 


CONTENTIS. 


XIX 


PAGB 

CXXXIX.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     The  present  of  a 

heifer  from  the  Dunlops  .  .  .  .393 
CXL.  To  Mr.  James  Johnson.     Scots  Musical 

Museum 393 

CXLI.  To  Dr.  Blacklock.     Poetical  progress. 

His  marriage 394 

CXLII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Enclosing  "Auld 

Laijg  Syne" 394 

CXL  III.  To  Miss  Davies.    Enclosing  the  song 

of  "  Charming,  lovely  Davies"  .  .  .  396 
CXLIV.  To  Mr.  John  Tennant    Praise  ©f  his 

whiskey 395 

1789. 

CXLV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections  suggested 
by  the  day 396 

CXLVI.  To  Dr.  Moore.  His  situation  and 
prospects 396 

CXLVII.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie.  His  favour- 
ite quotations.     Musical  Museum.         .         .     398 

CXLVIII.  To  Professor  Dugald  Stewart.  Enclo- 
sing some  poems  for  his  comments  upon      .     398 

CXLIX.  To  Bishop  Geddes.  His  situation  and 
prospects 399 

CL.  To  Mr.  James  Bumess.  His  wife  and  farm. 
Profit  from  his  poems.     Fanny  Burns .         .     399 

CLI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections.  His  success 
in  song  encouraged  a  shoal  of  bardlings      .     400 

CLII.  To  the  Rev.  Peter  Carfrae.  Mr.  Mylne's 
poem 401 

CLIII.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Introduction.  His  ode 
to  Mrs.  Oswald 401 

CLIV.  To  Mr.  William  Burns.    Remembrance    402 

CLV.  To  Mr.  Peter  Hill.  Economy  and  fru- 
gality.   Purchase  of  books  ....    402 

CLVI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Sketch  inscribed  to 
the  Right  Hon.  C.  J.  Fox     .        .        .        .403 

CLVII.  To  Mr.  William  Burns.  Asking  him  to 
make  his  house  his  home     ....    404 

CLVIII.  To  Mrs.  M'Murdo.  With  the  song  of 
"  Bonnie  Jean" 404 

CLIX.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  With  the  poem 
of  "  The  Wounded  Hare"    .        .        .        .404 

CLX,  To  Mr.  Samuel  Brown.  His  farm.  Ailsa 
fowling 405 

CLXI.  To  Mr.  Richard  Brown.    Kind  wishes     405 

CLXII.  To  Mr.  James  Hamilton.     Sympathy     406 

CLXIII.  To  William  Creech,  Esq.  Toothache. 
Good  wishes 406 

CLXIV.  To  Mr.  M'Auley.    His  own  welfare  .    406 

CLXV.  To  Mr.  Robert  AinsUe.  Overwhelmed 
with  incessant  toil 407 

CLXVI.  To  Mr.  M'Murdo.  Enclosing  his  new- 
est song 407 

CLXVII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections  on  re- 
ligion    408 

CLXVIII.  To  Mr. .    Fergusson  the  poet.    408 


rAoi 

CLXIX.  To  Miss  Williams.  Enclosing  criti- 
cisms on  her  poems 40< 

CLXX.  To  Mr.  John  Logan.    With  «  The  Kirk's 

Alarm" 410 

CLXXI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Religion.  Dr.  Moore's 

"Zeluco" 410 

CLXXIL  To  Captain  Riddel.  "  The  Whistle"  411 
CLXXin.  To  the  same.    With  some  of  his  MS. 

poems 411 

CLXXIV.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie.    His  Excise 

employment 412 

CLXXV.  To  Mr.  Richard  Brown.    His  Excise 

duties .412 

CLXXVL  To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintray. 

The  Excise.  Captain  Grose.  Dr.  M'Gill  .  413 
CLXXVIL   To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Reflections  on 

immortality 414 

CLXXVin.  To  Lady  M.  W.  Constable.    Jaco- 

bitism 415 

CLXXIX.  To  Provost  MaxweU.    At  a  loss  for 

a  subject 415 

1790. 

CLXXX.  To  Sir  John  Sinclair.    Account  of  a 

book-society  in  Nithsdale  ....  416 
CLXXXI.  To  Charles  Sharpe,  Esq.    A  letter 

with  a  fictitious  signature  .  •  .  .416 
CLXXXII.  To  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns.     His  farm  a 

ruinous  afiair.  Players  .  .  .  .  41 7 
CLXXXIII,  To  Mr.  Sutherland.     Enclosing  a 

Prologue       .         .         .        .         .         .         .418 

CLXXXIV.  To  Mr.  William  Dunbar.    Excise. 

His  children.  Another  world  .  .  .  418 
CLXXXV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.   Falconer  the  poet. 

Old  Scottish  songs 419 

CLXXXVL  To  Mr.  Peter  Hill.     MademoiseUe 

Burns.  Hurdis.  Smollett  and  Cowper  .  420 
CLXXXVII.  To  Mr.  W.  Nicol.    The  death  of 

Nicol's  mare  Peg  Nicholson  .         .         .     420 

CLXXXVin.  To  Mr.  W.  Cunningham.    What 

strange  beings  we  are 421 

CLXXXIX.   To  Mr.   Peter  HiU.     Orders  for 

books.     Mankind 423 

CXC.  To   Mrs.   Dunlop.     Mackenzie   and   the 

Mirror  and  Lounger 423 

CXCI.  To  Collector  Mitchell.  A  county  meeting  424 
CXCn.  To  Dr.  Moore.  "Zeluco."  Charlotte  Smith  425 
CXCIIL  To  Mr.  Murdoch.  William  Burns  .  426 
CXCrV.  To  Mr.  M'Murdo.    With  the  Elegy  on 

Matthew  Henderson 426 

CXCV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  His  pride  wounded  426 
CXCVI.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Independence  426 
CXCVII.  To  Dr.  Anderson.  «  The  Bee."  .  427 
CXCVIII.  To  William  Tytler,  Esq.    With  some 

West-country  ballads 427 

CXCIX.  To  Crauford  Tait,  Esq.    Introducing 

Mr.  William  Duncan    .        ...»    42? 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CC.  To  Crauford  Tait,  Esq.   "The  Kirk's  Alarm"  428 
CCI.  To   Mrs.  Dunlop.     On  the   birth  of  her 
grandchild.     Tarn  O'Shanter        .  .    429 

1791. 

ecu.  To  Lady  M.  W.  Constable.     Thanks  for 

the  present  of  a  gold  snuflf-box  .  .  .  429 
CCIII.  To  Mr.  William  Dunbar.     Not  gone  to 

Elysium.  Sending  a  poem  ....  429 
CCrV.  To  Mr.  Peter  Hill.  Apostrophe  to  Poverty  430 
CCV.  To  Mr.   Cunningham.     Tarn  O'Shanter. 

Elegy  on  Miss  Burnet 430 

CCVI.  To  A.  E.  Tytler,  Esq.  Tarn  O'Shanter  431 
CCVII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Miss  Burnet.   Elegy 

writing 431 

CCVIII.  To  Rev.  Arch.  Alison."  Thanking  him 

for  his  "  Essay  on  Taste"  .  .  .  .432 
CCIX.  To  Dr.  Moore.     Tam  O'Shanter.    Elegy 

on  Henderson.  Zeluco.  Lord  Glencairn  .  432 
CCX.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Songs  .  .  433 
CCXI.  To  Mr.  Alex.  Dalzel.    The  death  of  the 

Earl  of  Glencairn 434 

CCXII.  To   Mrs.  Graham,  of  Fintray.     With 

"  Queen  Mary's  Lament"  ....  434 
CCXIII.  To  the  same.  With  his  printed  Poems  435 
CCXIV.  To  the  Rev.  G.  Baird.  Michael  Bruce  435 
CCXV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Birth  of  a  son  .  435 
CCXVL  To  the  same.  Apology  for  delay  .  436 
CCXVII.  To  the  same.     Quaint  invective  on  a 

pedantic  critic 436 

CCXVIII.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.     The  case  of 

Mr.  Clarke  of  Moffat,  Schoolmaster  .  .  437 
CCXIX.  To  the   Earl   of  Buchan.     With   the 

Address  to  the  shade  of  Thomson  .  .  437 
OCXX.  To  Mr.  Thomas  Sloan.   Apologies.   His 

crop  sold  well 438 

CCXXL  To  Lady  E.  Cunningham.     With  the 

Lament  for  the  Earl  of  Glencairn  .  ,  438 
CCXXIL  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie.  State  of  mind. 

His  income 439 

CCXXIII.  ToCoLFullarton.  With  some  Poems. 

His  anxiety  for  FuUarton's  friendship  .  .  439 
CCXXrV,  To  Miss  Davis.   Lethargy,  Indolence, 

and  Ramorse.  Our  wishes  and  our  powers  .  440 
CCXXV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.    Mrs.  Henri.    The 

Song  of  Death 440 

1792. 

OCXX VI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  The  animadver- 
sions of  the  Board  of  Excise         .         .         .     441 

CCXXVII.  To  Mr.  William  Smellie.  Introdu- 
cing Mrs.  Riddel 441 

3CXXVIIL  To  Mr.  W.  Nicol.  Ironical  reply 
to  a  letter  of  counsel  and  reproof         .        .     442 

CCXXIX.  To  Francis  Grose,  Esq.  Dugald 
Stewart 443 

OCXXX.  To  the  same.    Witch  stories    .        .    443 


CCXXXI.  To  Mr.  S.  Clarke.  Humorous  invi- 
tation to  teach  music  to  the  M'Murdo  family    444 

CCXXXII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Love  and  Lesley 
Baillie 441 

CCXXXIIL  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Lesley  Baillie  448 

CCXXXIV.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  Promising  his 
assistance  to  his  collection  of  songs  and  airs   447 

CCXXXV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Situation  of  Mrs. 
Henri 448 

CCXXXVI.  To  the  same.  On  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Henri 449 

CCXXXVII.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  Thomson's  fas- 
tidiousness.    "  My  Nannie  0,"  Ac.       .         .     449 

CCXXXVIII.  To  the  same.  With  "My  wife 's 
a  winsome  wee  thing,"  and  "  Lesley  Baillie"    45f 

CCXXXIX.  To  the  same.  With  Highland  Mary. 
The  air  of  Katherine  Ogie   .        .        .        .450 

CCXL.  To  the  same.  Thomson's  alterations 
and  observations 451 

CCXLL  To  the  same.  With  "Auld  Rob  Mor- 
ris," and  "  Duncan  Gray"     ....    451 

CCXLII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Birth  of  a  daughter. 
The  poet  Thomson's  dramas         .         .         .     451 

CCXLIII.  To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintray. 
The  Excise  inquiry  into  his  political  conduct  452 

CCXLLV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Hurry  of  business. 
Excise  inquiry 453 

1793. 

CCXLV.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  With  "  Poortith 
cauld"  and  "Galla  Water"    .        .         .         .453 

CCXL VI.  To  the  same.  William  Tytler,  Peter 
Pindar 463 

CCXLVII.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  The  poet's 
seal.     David  Allan 454 

CCXLVIIL  To  Thomson.  With  "Mary  Mo- 
rison" 455 

CCXLIX.  To  the  same.  With  "Wandering 
Willie" 455 

CCL.  To  Miss  Benson.  Pleasure  he  had  in 
meeting  her 455 

CCLI.  To  Patrick  Miller,  Esq.  With  the  pre- 
sent of  his  printed  poems     ....     458 

CCLII.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  Review  of  Scottish 
song.     Crawfurd  and  Ramsay      .         *         .     456 

CCLin.  To  the  same.  Criticism.  Allan  Ram- 
say               .        .    457 

CCLIV.  To  the  same.  "The  last  time  I  came 
o'er  the  moor"      ......     458 

CCLV.  To  John  Francis  Erskine,  Esq.  Self- 
justification.     The  Excise  inquiry        .        .     459 

CCLVI.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie.  Answering 
letters.     Scholar-craft 460 

CCLVIL  To  Miss  Kennedy.  A  letter  of  com- 
pliment          461 

CCLVIIL  To  Mr.  Thomson.  Frazer.  "Blithe 
hae  I  been  on  yon  hill"        .        .        .        .461 


CONTENTS. 


XXi 


PAGB 

CCLIX.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  «  Logan  Water."  "  0 
gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose"   .         .        .     462 

CCLX.  To  the  same.  With  the  song  of  "  Bon- 
nie Jean" 463 

CCLXI.  To  the  same.  Hurt  at  the  idea  of  pecu- 
niary recompense.     Remarks  on  song .         .     463 

CCLXII.  To  the  same.  Note  written  in  the 
name  of  Stephen  Clarke       ....     464 

CCLXIII.  To  the  same.    With  «  Phillis  the  fair"  464 

CCLXIV.  To  the  same.  With  "Had  I  a  cave 
on  some  wild  distant  shore"  .         .         .     464 

CCLXV.  Tothesame.    With  "  Allan  Water"     464 

CCLXVI.  To  the  same.  With  "  0  whistle,  and 
I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad,"  <tc.       .         .         .     465 

CCLXVII.  To  the  same.  With  "Come,  let  me 
take  thee  to  my  breast"        ....     465 

CCLXVIII.  To  the  same.    With  "Dainty  Davie"  466 

CCLXIX.  To  Miss  Craik.  Wretchedness  of 
poets 466 

CCLXX.  To  Lady  Glencairn.  Gratitude.  Ex- 
cise.    Dramatic  composition         .         .        .     466 

CCLXXL  To  Mr.  Thomson.  With  "Scots  wha 
hae  wi'  Wallace  bled"  .         .         .         .         .467 

CCLXXn.  To  the  same.  With  "  Behold  the 
hour,  the  boat  arrive"  .....     468 

CCLXXin.  To  the  same.  Crawfurd  and  Scot- 
tish song 468 

OCLXXrV.  To  the  same.  Alterations  in  "Scots 
wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled"  ....    470 

CCLXXV.  To  the  same.  Further  suggested 
alterations  in  "  Scots  wha  hae"  rejected       .     470 

CCLXXVL  To  the  same.  With  "Deluded 
Bwain,  the  pleasure,"  and  "Raving  winds 
around  her  blowing" 471 

CCLXXVIL  To  the  same.  Erskine  and  Gavin 
Turnbull        .  471 

CCLXXVin.  To  John  M'Murdo,  Esq.  Pay- 
ment of  a  debt.     "  The  Merry  Muses"         .    472 

CCLXXIX.  To  the  same.  With  his  printed 
poems 473 

CCLXXX.  To  Captain .  Anxiety  for  his  ac- 
quaintance. "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled"  473 

CCLXXXI.  To  Mrs.  Riddel.  The  Dumfries 
Theatre 474 

1794. 

CCLXXXII.  To  a  Lady.  In  favour  of  a  play- 
er's benefit 474 

CCLXXXIII.  To  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  With  a 
copy  of  "  Scots  wha  hae"     .        .        .        .    474 

CCLXXXrV.  To  Captain  MUler.    With  %  oopy    . 
of  "  Scots  wha  hae" 475 

CCLXXXV.  To  Mrs.  Riddel.  Lobster-coated 
puppies 475 

CCLXXXVL  Tothesame.  The  gin-horse  class 
of  the  human  genus     ...  .     475 

CCLXXXVIL  To  the  same.  With  "Werter." 
Her  reception  of  him 475 


FAOV 

CCLXXXVIIL  To  Mrs.  Riddel.  Her  caprice  476 
CCLXXXIX.   To  the  same.     Her  neglect  and 

unkindness 476 

CCXC.  To  John  Syme,  Esq.     Mrs.  Oswald,  and 

"  0  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town"  .  .  .  476 
CCXCI.  To  Miss .    Obscure  allusions  to  a 

friend's  death.  His  personal  and  poetic  fame  477 
CCXCn.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.   Hypochondria. 

Requests  consolation 477 

CCXCIII.  To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn.    WJh  his 

printed  poems 478 

CCXCrV.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  David  Allan.  "The 

banks  of  Cree" 479 

CCXCV.  To  David  M'CuUoch,  Esq.  Arrange- 
ments for  a  trip  in  Galloway  .  .  .  479 
CCXCVI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Threatened  with 

flying  gout.  Ode  on  Washington's  birthday  479 
CCXCVII.  To  Mr.  James  Johnson.   Low  spirits. 

The  Museum.     Balmerino's  dirk  .         .     480 

CCXCVIII.  To  Mr.  Thomson.    Lines  written 

in  "Thomson's  Collection  of  songs"  .  .  480 
CCXCIX.  To  the  same.    With  "How  can  my 

poor  heart  be  glad" 480 

CCC.  To  the  same.    With  "  Ca'  the  yowes  to  the 

knowes"        .        ...        .        .        .481 

CCCI.  To  the  same.    With  "Sae  flaxen  were 

her  ringlets."  Epigram  to  Dr.  Maxwell  .  481 
CCCII.  To  the  same.     The  charms  of  Miss  Lo- 

rimer.  "  0  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely,"  Ac.  482 
CCCIII.  To  the  same.    Ritson's  Scottish  Songs. 

Love  and  song 483 

CCCrV.  To  the  same.    English  songs.    The  air 

of  "Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon"  .  484 
CCCV.  To  the  same.     With  "  0  Philly,  happy 

be  the  day,"  and  "  Contented  wi'  little'^  .  48$ 
CCCVI.  To  the  same.    With  "  Canst  thou  leave 

me  thus,  my  Katy" 488 

CCCVII.  To  Peter  Miller,  jun.,  Esq.    Excise. 

Perry's  offer  to  write  for  the  Morning  Chronicle  487 
CCCVIII.  To  Mr.  Samuel  Clarke,  jun.     A  poU- 

tical  and  personal  quarrel.  Regret  .  .  487 
CCCIX.  To  Mr,  Thomson.    With  "  Now  in  her 

green  mantle  blithe  nature  arrays        .        .    48* 

1795. 

CCCX.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  With  "For  a' that 
and  a' that" 488 

CCCXI.  To  the  same.    Abuse  of  Ecclefechan     438 

CCCXII.  To  the  same.  With  "  0  stay,  sweet 
warbling  woodlark,  stay,"  and  "  The  groves  cf 
sweet  myrtle" 488 

CCCXIII.  To  the  same.  With  «  How  cruel  are 
the  parents"  and  "  Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly 
fashion" 489 

CCCXIV.  Tothesame.  Praise  of  David  Allan's 
"Cotter's  Saturday  Night"    .        .        .        .489 

CCCXV.  To  the  same.  With  "  This  is  no  my  ain 
Lassie."    Mrs.  Riddel 489 


&XU 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

CCCXVI.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  With  "Forlorn, 
my  love,  no  comfort  near"   ....    490 

CCCXVII.  To  the  same.  With  "Last  Maya 
braw  wooer,"  and  "  Why  tell  thy  lover"       .     490 

CCCXVni.  To  Mrs.  Riddel.  A  letter  from  the 
grave    ........     490 

CCCXIX,  To  the  same.  A  letter  of  compliment. 
"Anacharsis'  Travels"  ....     491 

CCCXX.  To  Miss  Louisa  Fontenelle.  With  a 
Prologue  for  her  benefit-night      .         .         .     491 

CCCXXL  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  His  family.  Miss 
Fontenelle,     Cowper's  "Task"     .         .         .492 

CCCXXII.  To  Mr.  Alexander  Findlater.  Ex- 
cise schemes 492 

CCCXXIII.  To  the  Editor  of  the  Morning  Chro- 
nicle.    Written  for  a  friend.     A  complaint  .     493 

CCCXXIV.  To  Mr.  Heron,  of  Heron.  With  two 
political  ballads 493 

CCCXXV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Thomson's  Collec- 
tion.    Acting  as  Supervisor  of  Excise  .     494 

CCCXXVI.  To  the  Right  Hon.  William  Pitt. 
Address  of  the  Scottish  Distillers  .         .     495 

CCCXXVn.  To  the  Provost,  Bailies,  and  Town 
Council  of  Dumfries.  Request  to  be  made  a 
freeman  of  the  town 496 

1796. 

CCCXXVni.  To  Mrs.  Riddel.  « Anarcharsis' 
Travels."     The  muses 495 

CCCXXIX.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.    His  ill-health  .    496 

CCCXXX.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  Acknowledging 
his  present  to  Mrs.  Burns  of  a  worsted 
shawl 497 

CCCXXXI.  To  the  same.  Hl-health.  Mrs. 
Hyslop     Allan's  etchings.    Cleghom         .    497 


PAftl 

CCCXXXIL  To  the  same.  "Here's  a  health 
to  ane  I  loe  dear" 488 

CCCXXXIIL  To  the  same.  His  anxiety  tf. 
review  his  songs,  asking  for  copies       .         .     498 

CCCXXXrV.  To  Mrs.  Riddel.  His  increasing 
ill-health 498 

CCCXXXV.  To  Mr.  Cl?,rke,  acknowledging  mo- 
ney and  requesting  the  loan  of  a  further  sum   499 

CCCXXXVI.  To  Mr.  James  Johnson.  The 
Scots  Musical  Museum.  Request  for  a  copy 
of  the  collection 499 

CCCXXXVIL  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Hlness 
and  poverty,  anticipation  of  death       .         .     499 

CCCXXXVIII.  To  Mr.  GUbert  Bums.  His  ill- 
health  and  debts 600 

CCCXXXIX.  To  Mr.  James  Armour.  Entreating 
Mrs.  Armour  to  come  to  her  daughter's  con- 
finement        500 

CCCXL.  To  Mrs.  Burns.  Sea-bathing  aflfords 
little  relief 600 

CCCXLL  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Her  friendship.  A 
farewell 601 

CCCXLII.  To  Mr.  Thomson.  Solicits  the  sum 
of  five  pounds.  "Fairest  Maid  on  Devon 
Banks" 601 

CCCXLIII.  To  Mr.  James  Burness.  Soliciting 
tlfe  sum  of  ten  pounds  ....     601 

CCCXLIV.  To  James  Gracie,  Esq.  His  rheu- 
matism, <fcc.  <fcc. — his  loss  of  appetite  .        .    802 

Remarks  on  Scottish  Songs  and  Ballads  .     602 

The  Border  Tour 622 

The  Highland  Tour 627 

Burns's  Assignment  of  his  Works    .        .        .530 
Glosaaxy  ..«•••••    ^^1 


LIFE 


OT 


ROBEET   BURNS. 


BoBEBT  BuENS,  the  chief  of  the  peasant  poets  of  Scotland,  was  born  in  a  little  mud-walled 
rottage  on  the  banks  of  Doon,  near  "  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk,"  in  the  shire  of  Ayr,  on  the 
25th  day  cf  January,  1759.  As  a  natural  mark  of  the  event,  a  sudden  storm  at  the  same  moment 
«wept  the  land :  the  gabel-wall  of  the  frail  dwelling  gave  way,  and  the  babe-bard  was  hurried 
through  a  tempest  of  wind  and  sleet  to  the  shelter  of  a  securer  hovel.  He  was  the  eldest  born 
of  three  sons  and  three  daughters ;  his  father,  William,  who  in  his  native  Kincardineshire  wrote 
his  name  Burness,  was  bred  a  gardener,  and  sought  for  work  in  the  West ;  but  coming  from  the 
lands  of  the  noble  family  of  the  Keiths,  a  suspicion  accompanied  him  that  he  had  been  out — as 
rebellion  was  softly  called — in  the  forty-five :  a  suspicion  fatal  to  his  hopes  of  rest  and  bread,  in 
so  loyal  a  district ;  and  it  was  only  when  the  clergyman  of  his  native  parish  certified  his  loyalty 
that  he  was  permitted  to  toil.  This  suspicion  of  Jacobitism,  revived  by  Burns  himself,  when  he 
rose  into  fame,  seems  not  to  have  influenced  either  the  feelings,  or  the  tastes  of  Agnes  Brown,  a 
young  woman  on  the  Doon,  whom  he  wooed  and  married  in  December,  1757,  when  he  was  thirty- 
six  years  old.  To  support  her,  he  leased  a  small  piece  of  ground,  which  he  converted  into  a 
nursery  and  garden,  and  to  shelter  her,  he  raised  with  his  own  hands  that  humble  abode  where 
she  gave  birth  to  her  eldest  son. 

The  elder  Burns  was  a  well-informed,  silent,  austere  man,  who  endured  no  idle  gaiety,  nor 
indecorous  language :  while  he  relaxed  somewhat  the  hard,  stern  creed  of  the  Covenanting  times, 
he  enforced  all  the  work-day,  as  well  as  sabbath-day  observances,  which  the  Calvinistic  kirk 
requires,  and  scrupled  at  promiscuous  dancing,  as  the  staid  of  our  own  day  scruple  at  the  waltz. 
His  wife  was  of  a  milder  mood :  she  was  blest  with  a  singular  fortitude  of  temper ;  was  as  devout 
of  heart,  as  she  was  calm  of  mind ;  and  loved,  while  busied  in  her  household  concerns,  to  sweeten 
the  bitterer  moments  of  life,  by  chanting  the  songs  and  ballads  of  her  country,  of  which  her  store 
was  great.  The  garden  and  nursery  prospered  so  much,  that  he  was  induced  to  widen  his  views, 
and  by  the  help  of  his  kind  landlord,  the  laird  of  Doonholm,  and  the  more  questionable  aid  of 
borrowed  money,  he  entered  upon  a  neighbouring  farm,  named  Mount  Oliphant,  extending  to  an 
hundred  acres.  This  was  in  1765 ;  but  the  land  was  hungry  and  sterile;  the  seasons  proved  rainy 
and  rough ;  the  toil  was  certain,  the  reward  unsure ;  when  to  his  sorrow,  the  laird  of  Doonholm — 
a  generous  Ferguson, — died :  the  strict  terms  of  the  lease,  as  well  as  the  rent,  were  exacted  by 
a  harsh  factor,  and  with  his  wife  and  children,  he  was  obliged,  after  a  losing  struggle  of  six  years, 
to  relinquish  the  farm,  apd  seek  shelter  on  the  grounds  of  Lochlea,  some  ten  miles  off,  in  the 
parish  of  Tarbolton.  When,  in  after-days,  men's  characters  were  in  the  hands  of  his  eldest  son 
the  scoundrel  factor  sat  for  that  lasting  portrait  of  insolence  and  wrong,  in  the  "  Twa  Dogs." 

In  Uiis  new  farm  William  Burns  seemed  to  strike  root,  and  thrive.  He  was  strong  of  body  anJ 
ardent  of  mind ;  every  day  brought  increase  of  vigour  to  his  three  sons,  who,  though  very  youngj 


LIFE   OF   KOBEliT   BUKNJS. 


already  put  their  hands  to  the  plough,  the  reap-hook^  and  the  flail.  But  it  seemed  that  nothing 
which  he  undertook  was  decreed  in  the  end  to  prosper :  after  four  seasons  of  prosperity  a  change 
ensued:  the  farm  was  far  from  cheap;  the  gains  under  any  lease  were  then  so  little,  that  the 
loss  of  a  few  pounds  was  ruinous  to  a  farmer:  bad  seed  and  wet  seasons  had  their  usual  influence: 
**  The  gloom  of  hermits  and  the  moil  of  galley-slaves,"  as  the  poet,  alluding  to  those  days,  said, 
were  endured  to  no  purpose ;  when,  to  crown  all,  a  difi"erence  arose  between  the  landlord  and  the 
tenant,  as  to  the  terms  of  the  lease  ;*^and  the  early  days  of  the  poet,  and  the  declining  years  of 
his  father,  were  harassed  by  disputes,  in  which  sensitive  minds  are  sure  to  sufi'er. 

Amid  these  labours  and  disputes,  the  poet's  father  remembered  the  worth  of  religious  and  moral 
Instruction :  he  took  part  of  this  upon  himself.  A  week-day  in  Lochlea  wore  the  sober  looks  of 
a  Sunday :  he  read  the  Bible  and  explained,  as  intelligent  peasants  are  accustomed  to  do,  the 
senrse,  when  dark  or  difficult;  he  loved  to  discuss  the  spiritual  meanings,  and  gaze  on  the  mystical 
splendours  of  the  Revelations.  He  was  aided  in  these  labours,  first,  by  the  school-master  of 
Alloway-mill,  near  the  Doon  ;'*secondly,  by  John  Murdoch,  student  of  divinity,  who  undertook  to 
teach  arithmetic,  grammar,  French,  and  Latin,  to  the  boys  of  Lochlea,  and  the  sons  of  five 
neighbouring  farmers.  /Murdoch,  who  was  an  enthusiast  in  learning,  much  of  a  pedant,  and  such 
a  judge  of  genius  that  he  thought  wit  should  always  be  laughing,  and  poetry  wear  an  eternal 
smile,  performed  his  task  well :  he  found  Robert  to  be  quick  in  apprehension,  and  not  afraid  to 
study  when  knowledge  was  the  rewardJ'  He  taught  him  to  turn  verse  into  its  natural  prose  order ; 
to  supply  all  the  ellipses,  and  not  to  desist  till  the  sense  was  clear  and  plain :  he  also,  in  their 
walks,  told  him  the  names  of  difi"erent  objects  both  in  Latin  and  French ;  and  though  his  know- 
ledge of  these  languages  never  amounted  to  much,  he  approached  the  grammar  of  the  English 
tongue,  through  the  former,  which  was  of  material  use  to  him,  in  his  poetic  compositions.  Burns 
was,  even  in  those  early  days,  a  -sort  of  enthusiast  in  all  that  concerned  the  glory  of  Scotland ; 
he  used  to  fancy  himself  a  soldier  of  the  days  of  the  Wallace  and  the  Bruce :  loved  to  strut  after 
the  bag-pipe  and  the  drum,  and  read  of  the  bloody  struggles  of  his  country  for  freedom  and 
existence,  till  "a  Scottish  prejudice,"  he  says,  '<  was  poured  into  my  veins,  which  will  boil  there 
till  the  flood-gates  of  life  are  shut  in  eternal  rest." 

In  this  mood  of  mind  Burns  was  unconsciously  approaching  the  land  of  poesie.  In  addition  to 
the  histories  of  the  Wallace  and  the  Bruce,  he  found,  on  the  shelves  of  his  neighbours,  not  only 
whole  bodies  of  divinity,  and  sermons  without  limit,  but  the  works  of  some  of  the  best  English, 
as  well  as  Scottish  poets,  together  with  songs  and  ballads  innumerable.  On  these  he  loved  to 
pore  whenever  a  moment  of  leisure  came;  nor  was  verse  his  sole  favourite  ;  he  desired  to  drink 
knowledge  at  any  fountain,  and  Guthrie's  Grammar,  Dickson  on  Agriculture,  Addison's  Spectator, 
Locke  on  the  Human  Understanding,  and  Taylor's  Scripture  Doctrine  of  Original  Sin,  were  as 
welcome  to  his  heart  as  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Pope,  Thomson,  and  Young.  There  is  a  mystery  in 
the  workings  of  genius :  with  these  poets  in  his  head  and  hand,  we  see  not  that  he  has  advanced 
one  step  in  the  way  in  which  he  was  soon  to  walk,  "  Highland  Mary"  and  "Tarn  o'  Shanter" 
sprang  from  other  inspirations. 

Burns  lifts  up  the  veil  himself,  from  the  studies  which  made  him  a  poet.  "  In  my  boyish 
days,"  he  says  to  Moore,  "  I  owed  much  to  an  old  woman  (Jenny  Wilson)  who  resided  in  the 
family,  remarkable  for  her  credulity  and  superstition.  She  had,  I  suppose,  the  largest  collection 
in  the  country  of  tales  and  songs,  concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies,  brownies,  witches,  warlocks, 
►punkies,  kelpies,  elfcandles,  dead-lights,  wraiths,  apparitions,  cantraips,  giants,  enchanted 
towers,  dragons,  and  other  trumpery.  This  ciiltivated  the  latent  seeds  of  poesie ;  but  had  so 
strong  an  eflect  upon  my  imagination  that  to  this  hour,  in  my  nocturnal  rambles,  I  sometimes 
keep  a  look-out  on  suspicious  places."  Here  we  have  the  young  poet  taking  lessons  in  the  classic 
lore  of  his  native  land :  in  the  school  of  Janet  Wilson  he  profited  largely ;  her  tales  gave  a  hue, 
all  their  own,  to  many  noble  effusions.  But  her  teaching  was  at  the  hearth-stone  :  when  he  was 
in  the  fields,  either  driving  a  cart  or  walking  to  labour,  he  had  ever  in  his  hand  a  collection  of 
Bongs,  such  as  any  stall  in  the  land  could  supply  him  with ;  and  over  these  he  pored,  ballad  by 
ballad,  and  verse  by  verse,  noting  the  true,  tender,  and  the  natural  sublime  from  afi'ectation  and 
(astian     "  To  this,"  he  said,  '*  I  am  convinced  that  I  owe  much  of  my  critic  craft,  such  as  it  is." 


LETTER  TO   HIS   FATHER. 


His  mother,  too,  unconsciously  led  him  in  the  ways  of  the  muse :  she  loved  to  recite  or  sing  to  him 
ft  strange,  but  clever  ballad,  called  "  the  Life  and  Age  of  Man :"  this  strain  of  piety  and  imagina- 
ti6n  was  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  "  Man  was  made  to  Mourn." 

/He  found  other  teachers — of  a  tenderer  nature  and  softer  influence.  "You  know,"  he  says  to 
Moore,  "our  country  custom  of  coupling  a  man  and  woman  together  as  partners  in  the  labours 
of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  autumn  my  partner  was  a  bewitching  creature,  a  year  younger  than 
myself:  she  was  in  truth  a  bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie  lass,  and  unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated  me  in 
that  delicious  passion,  which,  in  spite  of  acid  disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence,  and  book-wom 
philosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first  of  human  joys.  How  she  caught  the  contagion  I  cannot  tell ;  I 
never  expressly  said  I  loved  her :  indeed  I  did  not  know  myself  why  I  liked  so  much  to  loiter 
behind  with  her,  when  returning  in  the  evenings  from  our  labours ;  why  the  tones  of  her  voice 
made  my  heart  strings  thrill  like  an  jEolian  harp,  and  particularly  why  my  pulse  beat  such  a 
furious  ratan,  when  I  looked  and  fingered  over  her  little  hand,  to  pick  out  the  cruel  nettle-stings 
and  thistles.  Among  other  love-inspiring  qualities,  she  sang  sweetly,  and  it  was  her  favourite 
reel  to  which  I  attempted  to  give  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme ;  thus  with  me  began  love  and 
verse."  This  intercourse  with  the  fair  part  of  the  creation,  was  to  his  slumbering  emotions,  a 
voice  from  heaven  to  call  them  into  life  and  poetry.  / 

From  the  school  of  traditionary  lore  and  love.  Burns  now  went  to  a  rougher  academy.  Lochlea, 
though  not  producing  fine  crops  of  corn,  was  considered  excellent  for  flax ;  and  while  the  culti- 
vation of  this  commodity  was  committed  to  his  father  and  his  brother  Gilbert,  he  was  sent  to 
Irvine  at  Midsummer,  1781,  to  learn  the  trade  of  a  flax-dresser,  under  one  Peacock,  kinsman  to 
his  mother.  Some  time  before,  he  had  spent  a  portion  of  a  summer  at  a  school  in  Kirkoswald, 
learning  mensuration  and  land-surveying,  where  he  had  mingled  in  scenes  of  sociality  with 
smugglers,  and  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  a  silent  walk,  under  the  moon,  with  the  young  and  the 
beautiful.  At  Irvine  he  laboured  by  day  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  his  business,  and  at  night  he 
associated  with  the  gay  and  the  thoughtless,  with  whom  he  learnt  to  empty  his  glass,  and  indulge 
in  free  discourse  on  topics  forbidden  at  Lochlea.  He  had  one  small  room  for  a  lodging,  for  which 
he  gave  a  shilling  a  week:  meat  he  seldom  tasted,  and  his  food  consisted  chiefly  of  oatmeal  and 
potatoes  sent  from  his  father's  house.  In  a  letter  to  his  father,  written  with  great  purity  and 
eimplicity  of  style,  he  thus  gives  a  picture  of  himself,  mental  and  bodily :  "  Honoured  Sir,  I  have 
purposely  delayed  writing,  in  the  hope  that  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  on  new 
years'  day,  but  work  comes  so  hard  upon  us  that  I  do  not  choose  to  be  absent  on  that  account. 
My  health  is  nearly  the  same  as  when  you  were  here,  only  my  sleep  is  a  little  sounder,  and  on 
the  whole,  I  am  rather  better  than  otherwise,  though  I  mend  by  very  slow  degrees:  the  weak- 
ness of  my  nerves  had  so  debilitated  my  mind  that  I  dare  neither  review  past  wants  nor  look  for- 
ward into  futurity,  for  the  least  anxiety  or  perturbation  in  my  breast  produces  most  unhappy 
eff"ects  on  my  whole  frame.  Sometimes  indeed,  when  for  an  hour  or  two  my  spirits  are  a  little 
lightened,  I  glimmer  a  little  into  futurity;  but  my  principal  and  indeed  my  only  pleasurable 
employment  is  looking  backwards  and  forwards  in  a  moral  and  religious  way.  I  am  quite  trans- 
ported at  the  thought  that  ere  long,  perhaps  very  soon,  I  shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  all  the 
pains  and  uneasinesses,  and  disquietudes  of  this  weary  life.  As  for  the  world,  I  despair  of  ever 
making  a  figure  in  it :  I  am  not  formed  for  the  bustle  of  the  busy,  nor  the  flutter  of  the  gay.  I 
foresee  that  poverty  and  obscurity  probably  await  me,  and  I  am  in  some  measure  prepared  and 
ilaily  preparing  to  meet  them.  I  have  but  just  time  and  paper  to  return  you  my  grateful  thanks 
for  the  lessons  of  virtue  and  piety  you  have  given  me,  which  were  but  too  much  neglected  at  the 
time  of  giving  them,  but  which,  I  hope,  have  been  remembered  ere  it  is  yet  too  late."  This 
remarkable  letter  was  written  in  the  twenty-second  year  of  his  age ;  it  alludes  to  the  illness 
which  seems  to  have  been  the  companioh  of  his  youth,  a  nervous  headache,  brought  on  by  con- 
stant toil  and  anxiety ;  and  it  speaks  of  the  melancholy  which  is  the  common  attendant  of  genius, 
and  its  sensibilities,  aggravated  by  despair  of  distinction.  The  catastrophe  which  happened  ere 
this  letter  was  well  in  his  father's  hand,  accords  ill  with  quotations  from  the  Bible,  and  hopes 
fixed  in  heaven: — "As  we  gave,"  he  says,  "  a  welcome  carousal  to  the  new  year,  the  shop  took 
fire,  and  burni  to  ashes,  and  I  was  left,  like  a  true  poet,  not  worth  a  sixpence." 


xxvf  LIFE   OF   BOBERT  BUBNS. 

This  disaster  was  followed  by  one  more  grievous :  his  father  was  well  in  years  when  he  was 
married,  and  age  and  a  constitution  injured  by  toil  and  disappointment,  began  to  press  him 
down,  ere  his  sons  had  grown  up  to  man's  estate.  On  all  sides  the  clouds  began  to  darken  • 
the  farm  was  unprosperous :  the  speculations  in  flax  failed ;  and  the  landlord  of  Lochlea,  raising 
a  question  upon  the  meaning  of  the  lease,  concerning  rotation  of  crop,  pushed  the  matter  to  a 
lawsuit,  alike  ruinous  to  a  poor  man  either  in  its  success  or  its  failure.  "After  three  years 
tossing  and  whirling,"  says  Burns,  "in  the  vortex  of  litigation,  my  father  was  just  saved  from 
the  horrors  of  a  jail  by  a  consumption,  which,  after  two  years'  promises,  kindly  stept  in  and 
carried  him  away  to  where  the  'wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at  rest.'  His  .all 
went  among  the  hell-hounds  that  prowl  in  the  kennel  of  justice.  The  finishing  evil  which  brought 
up  the  rear  of  this  infernal  file,  was  my  constitutional  melancholy  being  increased  to  such  a 
degree,  that  for  three  months  I  was  in  a  state  of  mind  scarcely  to  be  envied  by  the  hopeless 
wretches  who  have  got  their  mittimus,  '  Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed.' " 

Robert  Burns  was  now  the  head  of  his  father's  house.  He  gathered  together  the  little  that 
law  and  misfortune  had  spared,  and  took  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  near  Mauchline,  containing  one 
hundred  and  eighteen  acres,  at  a  rent  of  ninety  pounds  a  year :  his  mother  and  sisters  took  the 
domestic  superintendence  of  home,  barn,  and  byre  ;  and  he  associated  his  brother  Gilbert  in  the 
labours  of  the  land.  It  was  made  a  joint  affair:  the  poet  was  young,  willing,  and  vigorous,  and 
excelled  in  ploughing,  sowing,  reaping,  mowing,  and  thrashing.  His  wages  were  fixed  at  seven 
pounds  per  annum,  and  such  for  a  time  was  his  care  and  frugality,  that  he  never  exceeded  this 
small  allowance.  He  purchased  books  on  farming,  held  conversations  with  the  old  and  the  know- 
ing ;  and  said  unto  himself,  "  I  shall  be  prudent  and  wise,  and  my  shadow  shall  increase  in  the 
land."  But  it  was  not  decreed  that  these  resolutions  were  to  endure,  and  that  he  was  to  become 
a  mighty  agriculturist  in  the  west.  Farmer  Attention,  as  the  proverb  says,  is  a  good  farmer,  all 
the  world  over,  and  Burns  was  such  by  fits  and  by  starts.  K^ut  he  who  writes  an  ode  on  the  sheep 
he  is  about  to  shear,  a  poem  on  the  flower  that  he  covers  with  the  furrow,  who  sees  visions  on  his 
way  to  market,  who  makes  rhymes  on  the  horse  he  is  about  to  yoke,  and  a  song  on  the  girl  who 
shows  the  whitest  hands  among  his  reapers,  has  small  chance  of  leading  a  market,  or  of  being 
laird  of  the  fields  he  rents.  The  dreams  of  Burns  were  of  the  muses,  and  not  of  rising  markets, 
of  golden  locks  rather  than  of  yellow  corn :  he  had  other  faults.  It  is  not  known  that  William 
Burns  was  aware  before  his  death  that  his  eldest  son  had  sinned  in  rhyme  ;  but  we  have  Gilbert's 
assurance,  that  his  father  went  to  the  grave  in  ignorance  of  his  son's  errors  of  a  less  venial  kind 
— unwitting  that  he  was  soon  to  give  a  two-fold  proof  ofe both  in  "Rob  the  Rhymer's  Address  to 
his  Bastard  Child" — a  poem  less  decorous  than  witty.»/ 

The  dress  and  condition  of  Burns  when  he  became  a  poet  were  not  at  all  poetical,  in  the  minstrel 
meaning  of  the  word.  His  clothes,  coarse  and  homely,  were  made  from  home-grown  wool,  shorn 
off  his  own  sheeps'  backs,  carded  and  spun  at  his  own  fireside,  woven  by  the  village  weaver,  and, 
when  not  of  natural  hodden-gray,  dyed  a  half-blue  in  the  village  vat.  They  were  shaped  and 
sewed  by  the  district  tailor,  who  usually  wrought  at  the  rate  of  a  groat  a  day  and  his  food ;  and 
as  the  wool  was  coarse,  so  also  was  the  workmanship.  The  linen  which  he  wore  was  home-grown, 
home-hackled,  home-spun,  home-woven,  and  home-bleached,  and,  unless  designed  for  Sunday 
use,  was  of  coarse,  strong  harn,  to  suit  the  tear  and  wear  of  barn  and  field.  His  shoes  came  from 
rustic  tanpits,  for  most  farmers  then  prepared  their  own  leather;  were  armed,  sole  and  heel,  with 
heavy,  broad-headed  nails,  to  endure  the  clod  and  the  road :  as  hats  were  then  little  in  use,  save 
among  small  lairds  or  country  gentry,  westland  heads  were  commonly  covered  with  a  coarse, 
broad,  blue  bonnet,  with  a  stopple  on  its  flat  crown,  made  in  thousands  at  Kilmarnock,  and  known 
in  all  lands  by  the  name  of  scone  bonnets.  His  plaid  was  a  handsome  red  and  white  check — 
for  pride  in  poets,  he  said,  was  no  sin — prepared  of  fine  wool  with  more  than  common  care  by 
the  hands  of  his  mother  and  sisters,  and  woven  with  more  skill  than  the  village  weaver  wag 
asually  required  to  exert.  Ilis  dwelling  was  in  keeping  with  his  dress,  a  low,  thatched  house. 
with  a  kitchen,  a  bedroom  and  closet,  with  floors  of  kneaded  clay,  and  ceilings  of  moorland  turf: 
ft  few  books  on  a  shelf,  thumbed  by  many  a  thumb ;  a  few  hams  drying  above  head  in  the  smoke, 


HIS  EARLIER  VlfclllSES.  xxvii 


trhicli  was  in  no  haste  to  get  out  at  the  roof — a  wooden  settle,  some  oak  chairs,  chaff  beds  well 
covered  with  blankets,  with  a  fire  of  peat  and  wood  burning  at  a  distance  from  the  gable  wall,  on 
the  middle  of  the  floor.  His  food  was  as  homely  as  his  habitation,  and  consisted  chiefly  of  oat- 
meal-porridge, barley-broth,  and  potatoes,  and  milk.  How  the  muse  happened  to  visit  him  in 
'/this  clay  biggin,  take  a  fancy  to  a  clouterly  peasant,  and  teach  him  strains  of  consummate  beauty 
and  elegance,  must  ever  be  a  matter  of  wonder  to  all  those,  and  they  are  not  few,  who  hold  that 
noble  sentiments  and  heroic  deeds  are  the  exclusive  portion  of  the  gently  nursed  and  the  far 
descenled. 

Of  the  earlier  verses  of  Burns  few  are  preserved :  when  composed,  he  put  them  on  paper,  but 
he  kept  them  to  himself:  though  a  poet  at  sixteen,  he  seems  not  to  have  made  even  his  brother 
hiis  confidante  till  he  became  a  man,  and  his  judgment  had  ripened.  He,  however,  made  a  little 
clasped  paper  book  his  treasurer,  and  under  the  head  of  "Observations,  Hints,  Songs,  and 
Scraps  of  Poetry,"  we  find  many  a  wayward  and  impassioned  verse,  songs  rising  little  above  the 
humblest  country  strain,  or  bursting  into  an  elegance  and  a  beauty  worthy  of  the  highest  of 
minstrels.  The  first  words  noted  down  are  the  stanzas  which  he  composed  on  his  fair  companion 
of  the  harvest-field,  out  of  whose  hands  he  loved  to  remove  the  nettle-stings  and  the  thistles :  the 
prettier  song,  beginning  "Now  westlin  win's  and  slaughtering  guns,"  vrritten  on  the  lass  of 
Kirkoswald,  with  whom,  instead  of  learning  mensuration,  he  chose  to  wander  under  the  light  of 
the  moon:  a  strain  better  still,  inspired  by  the  charms  of  a  neighbouring  maiden,  of  the  name 
of  Annie  Ronald ;  another,  of  equal  merit,  arising  out  of  his  nocturnal  adventures  among  the 
lasses  of  the  west ;  and,  finally,  that  crowning  glory  of  all  his  lyric  compositions,  "  Green  grow 
the  rashes."  This  little  clasped  book,  however,  seems  not  to  have  been  made  his  confidante  till 
his  twenty-third  or  twenty-fourth  year :  he  probably  admitted  to  its  pages  only  the  strains  which 
he  loved  most,  or  such  as  had  taken  a  place  in  his  memory :  at  whatever  age  it  was  commenced, 
he  had  then  begun  to  estimate  his  own  character,  and  intimate  his  fortunes,  for  he  calls  himself 
in  its  pages  "  a  man  who  had  little  art  in  making  money,  and  still  less  in  keeping  it." 

We  have  not  been  told  how  welcome  the  incense  of  his  songs  rendered  him  to  the  rustic  maidens 
of  Kyle :  women  are  not  apt  to  be  won  by  the  charms  of  verse ;  they  have  little  sympathy  with 
dreamers  on  Parnassus,  and  allow  themselves  to  be  influenced  by  something  more  substantial  than 
the  roses  and  lilies  of  the  muse.  Burns  had  other  claims  to  their  regard  than  those  arising  from  poetic 
skill :  he  was  tall,  young,  good-looking,  with  dark,  bright  eyes,  and  words  and  wit  at  will :  he  had  a 
sarcastic  sally  for  all  lads  who  presumed  to  cross  his  path,  and  a  soft,  persuasive  word  for  all  lasses 
on  whom  he  fixed  his  fancy :  nor  was  this  all — he  was  adventurous  and  bold  in  love  trystes  and 
love  excursions :  long,  rough  roads,  stormy  nights,  flooded  rivers,  and  lonesome  places,  were  no 
letts  to  him ;  and  when  the  dangers  or  labours  of  the  way  were  braved,  he  was  alike  skilful  in 
eluding  vigilant  aunts,  wakerife  mothers,  and  envious  or  suspicious  sisters :  for  rivals  he  had  a 
blow  as  ready  as  he  had  a  word,  and  was  familiar  with  snug  stack-yards,  broomy  glens,  and  nooks 
of  hawthorn  and  honeysuckle,  where  maidens  love  to  be  wooed.  This  rendered  him  dearer  to 
woman's  heart  than  all  the  lyric  effusions  of  his  fancy ;  and  when  we  add  to  such  allurements,  a 
warm,  flowing,  and  persuasive  eloquence,  we  need  not  wonder  that  woman  listened  and  was  won; 
that  one  of  the  most  charming  damsels  of  the  West  said,  an  hour  with  him  in  the  dark  was  worth 
a  lifetime  of  light  with  any  other  body;  or  that  the  accomplished  and  beautiful  Duchess  of 
Gordon  declared,  in  a  latter  day,  that  no  man  ever  carried  her  so  completely  off  her  feet  an 
Robert  Burns. 

It  is  one  of  the  delusions  of  the  poet's  critics  and  biographers,  that  the  sources  of  his  inspira- 
tion are  to  be  found  in  the  great  classic  poets  of  the  land,  with  some  of  whom  he  had  from  his 
youth  been  familiar :  there  is  little  or  no  trace  of  them  in  any  of  his  compositions.  He  read 
and  wondered — he  warmed  his  fancy  at  their  flame,  he  corrected  his  own  natural  taste  by  theirs, 
but  he  neither  copied  nor  imitated,  and  there  are  but  two  or  three  allusions  to  Young  and  Shak- 
gpeare  in  all  the  range  of  his  verse.  He  could  not  but  feel  that  he  was  the  scholar  of  a  different 
school,  and  that  his  thirst  was  to  be  slaked  at  other  fountains.  The  language  in  which  those 
p-eat  bards  embodied  their  thoughts  was  unapproachable  to  an  Ayrshire  peasant ;  it  was  to  him 
as  an  almost  foreign  tongue :  he  had  to  think  and  feel  in  the  not  ungraceful  or  inharmonious 

I 


xxviii  LIFE   OF   ROBEKT   BUKJS'S. 

language  of  Ms  own  vale,  and  then,  in  a  manner,  tran/ilat«  it  into  that  of  Pope  or  of  Thomson, 
with  the  additional  difficulty  of  finding  English  words  to  express  the  exact  meaning  of  those  of 
Bcotland,  which  had  chiefly  been  retained  because  equivalents  could  not  be  found  in  the  more 
elegant  and  grammatical  tongue.  Such  strains  as  those  of  the  polished  Pope  or  the  sublimer 
Milton  were  beyond  his  power,  less  from  deficiency  of  genius  than  from  lack  of  language :  he 
could,  indeed,  write  English  with  ease  and  fluency ;  but  when  he  desired  to  be  tender  or  impas- 
sioned, to  persuade  or  subdue,  he  had  recourse  to  the  Scottish,  and  he  found  it  sufficient. 

The  goddesses  or  the  Dalilahs  of  the  young  poet's  song  were,  like  the  language  in  which  he 
celebrated  them,  the  produce  of  the  district ;  not  dames  high  and  exalted,  but  lasses  of  the  barn 
and  of  the  byre,  who  had  never  been  in  higher  company  than  that  of  shepherds  or  ploughmen, 
or  danced  in  a  politer  assembly  than  that  of  their  fellow-peasants,  on  a  barn-floor,  to  the  sound 
of  the  district  fiddle.  Nor  even  of  these  did  he  choose  the  loveliest  to  lay  out  the  wealth  of  his 
verse  upon :  he  has  been  accused,  by  his  brother  among  others,  of  lavishing  the  colours  of  his 
fancy  on  very  ordinary  faces.  "  He  had  always,"  says  Gilbert,  "  a  jealousy  of  people  who  were 
richer  than  himself ;  his  love,  therefore,  seldom  settled  on  persons  of  this  description.  When  he 
selected  any  one,  out  of  the  sovereignty  of  his  good  pleasure,  to  whom  he  should  pay  his  parti- 
cular attention,  she  was  instantly  invested  with  a  sufficient  stock  of  charms  out  of  the  plentiful 
stores  of  his  own  imagination :  and  there  was  often  a  great  dissimilitude  between  his  fair  capti- 
vator,  as  she  appeared  to  others  and  as  she  seemed  when  invested  with  the  attributes  he  gave 
her."  "My  heart,"  he  himself,  speaking  of  those  days,  observes,  "was  completely  tinder,  and 
was  eternally  lighted  up  by  some  goddess  or  other."  Yet,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  sufficient 
room  exists  for  believing  that  Burns  and  his  brethren  of  the  West  had  very  different  notions  of 
the  captivating  and  the  beautiful ;  while  they  were  moved  by  rosy  cheeks  and  looks  of  rustic 
health,  he  was  moved,  like  a  sculptor,  by  beauty  of  form  or  by  harmony  of  motion,  and  by 
expression,  which  lightened  up  ordinary  features  and  rendered  them  captivating.  Such,  I  have 
been  told,  were  several  of  the  lasses  of  the  West,  to  whom,  if  he  did  not  surrender  his  heart,  he' 
rendered  homage  ;  and  both  elegance  of  form  and  beauty  of  face  were  visible  to  all  in  those  of 
whom  he  afterwards  sang — the  Hamiltons  and  the  Burnets  of  Edinburgh,  and  the  Millers  and 
M'Murdos  of  the  Nith. 

The  mind  of  Burns  took  now  a  wider  range :  he  had  sung  of  the  maidens  of  Kyle  in  strains 
not  likely  soon  to  die,  and  though  not  weary  of  the  softnesses  of  love,  he  desired  to  try  his  genius 
on  matters  of  a  sterner  kind — what  those  subjects  were  he  tells  us  ;  they  were  homely  and  at 
hand,  of  a  native  nature  and  of  Scottish  growth :  places  celebrated  in  Roman  story,  vales  made 
famous  in  Grecian  song — hills  of  vines  and  groves  of  myrtle  had  few  charms  for  him.  "  I  am 
hurt,"  thus  he  writes  in  August,  1785,  "  to  see  other  towns,  rivers,  woods,  and  haughs  of  Scot- 
land immortalized  in  song,  while  my  dear  native  county,  the  ancient  Baillieries  of  Carrick,  Kyle, 
and  Cunningham,  famous  in  both  ancient  and  modern  times  for  a  gallant  and  warlike  race  of 
inhabitants — a  county  where  civil  and  religious  liberty  have  ever  found  their  first  support  and 
their  asylum — a  county,  the  birth-place  of  many  famous  philosophers,  soldiers,  and  statesmen, 
and  the  scene  of  many  great  events  recorded  in  history,  particularly  the  actions  of  the  glorious 
Wallace — ^yet  we  have  never  had  one  Scotch  poet  of  any  eminence  to  make  the  fertile  banks  of 
Irvine,  the  romantic  woodlands  and  sequestered  scenes  of  Ayr,  and  the  mountainous  source  and 
winding  sweep  of  the  Doon,  emulate  Tay,  Forth,  Ettrick,  and  Tweed.  This  is  a  complaint  I  would 
gladly  remedy,  but,  alas!  I  am  far  unequal  to  the  task,  both  in  genius  and  education."  To  fill 
up  with  glowing  verse  the  outline  which  this  sketch  indicates,  was  to  raise  the  long-laid  spirit  of 
National  song — to  waken  a  strain  to  which  the  whole  land  would  yield  response — a  miracle  unat- 
tempted — certainly  unperformed — since  the  days  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd.  It  is  true  that  the 
tongue  of  the  muse  had  at  no  time  been  wholly  silent ;  that  now  and  then  a  burst  of  sublime  woe, 
like  the  song  of  "  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me,"  and  of  lasting  merriment  and  humour,  like  that 
of  "  Tibbie  Fowler,"  proved  that  the  fire  of  natural  poesie  smouldered,  if  it  did  not  blaze  ;  while 
the  social  strains  of  the  unfortunate  Fergusson  revived  in  the  city,  if  not  in  the  field,  the  memory 
»f  him  who  sang  the  "  Monk  and  the  Miller's  wife."  But  notwithstanding  these  and  other  pro- 
ductions of  equal  merit,  Scottish  poesie,  it  must  be  owned,  had  lost  much  of  its  original  ecstasy 


MOSSGIEL.  xxix 


and  fervour,  and  that  the  boldest  eflForts  of  the  muse  no  more  equalled  the  songs  of  Dunbar,  ol 
Douglas,  of  Lyndsay,  and  of  James  the  Fifth,  than  the  sound  of  an  artificial  cascade  resembles 
the  undying  thunders  of  Corra. 

To  accomplish  this  required  an  acquaintance  with  man  beyond  what  the  forge,  the  change-house, 
and  the  market-place  of  the  village  supplied ;  a  look  further  than  the  barn-yard  and  the  furrowed 
field,  and  a  livelier  knowledge  and  deeper  feeling  of  history  than,  probably,  Burns  ever  possessed. 
To  all  ready  and  accessible  sources  of  knowledge  he  appears  to  have  had  recourse ;  he  sought 
matter  for  his  muse  in  the  meetings,  religious  as  well  as  social,  of  the  district — consorted  with 
staid  matrons,  grave  plodding  farmers — with  those  who  preached  as  well  as  those  who  listened— 
with  sharp-tongued  attorneys,  who  laid  down  the  law  over  a  Mauchline  gill — with  country  squires, 
whose  wisdom  was  great  in  the  game-laws,  and  in  contested  elections — and  with  roving  smug- 
glers, who  at  that  time  hung,  as  a  cloud,  on  all  the  western  coast  of  Scotland.  In  the  company 
of  farmers  and  fellow-peasants,  he  witnessed  scenes  which  he  loved  to  embody  in  verse,  saw  pic- 
tures of  peace  and  joy,  now  woven  into  the  web  of  his  song,  and  had  a  poetic  impulse  given  to 
him  both  by  cottage  devotion  and  cottage  merriment.  If  he  was  familiar  with  love  and  all  its 
outgoings  and  incomings — had  met  his  lass  in  the  midnight  shade,  or  walked  with  her  under  the 
moon,  or  braved  a  stormy  night  and  a  haunted  road  for  her  sake — he  was  as  well  acquainted  with 
the  joys  which  belong  to  social  intercourse,  when  instruments  of  music  speak  to  the  feet,  when 
the  reek  of  punchbowls  gives  a  tongue  to  the  staid  and  demure,  and  bridal  festivity,  and  harvest- 
homes,  bid  a  whole  valley  lift  up  its  voice  and  be  glad.  It  is  more  difficult  to  decide  what  poetic 
use  he  could  make  of  his  intercourse  with  that  loose  and  lawless  class  of  men,  who,  from  love  of 
gain,  broke  the  laws  and  braved  the  police  of  their  country  :  that  he  found  among  smugglers,  as 
he  says,  "men  of  noble  virtues,  magnanimity,  generosity,  disinterested  friendship,  and  modesty," 
is  easier  to  believe  than  that  he  escaped  the  contamination  of  their  sensual  manners  and  prodi- 
gality. The  people  of  Kyle  regarded  this  conduct  with  suspicion :  they  were  not  to  be  expected 
to  know  that  when  Burns  ranted  and  boused  with  smugglers,  conversed  with  tinkers  huddled  in  a 
kiln,  or  listened  to  the  riotous  mirth  of  a  batch  of  "randie  gangrel  bodies"  as  they  "toomed 
their  powks  and  pawned  their  duds,"  for  liquor  inPoosie  Nansie's,  he  was  taking  sketches  for  the 
future  entertainment  and  instruction  of  the  world ;  they  could  not  foresee  that  from  all  this  moral 
strength  and  poetic  beauty  would  arise. 

While  meditating  something  better  than  a  ballad  to  his  mistress's  eyebrow,  he  did  not  neglect 
to  lay  out  the  little  skill  he  had  in  cultivating  the  grounds  of  Mossgiel.  The  prosperity  in  which 
he  found  himself  in  the  first  and  second  seasons,  induced  him  to  hope  that  good  fortune  had  not 
yet  forsaken  him :  a  genial  summer  and  a  good  market  seldom  come  together  to  the  farmer,  but 
at  first  they  came  to  Burns  ;  and  to  show  that  he  was  worthy  of  them,  he  bought  books  on  agri- 
culture, calculated  rotation  of  crops,  attended  sales,  held  the  plough  with  diligence,  used  the 
scythe,  the  reap-hook,  and  the  flail,  with  skill,  and  the  malicious  even  began  to  say  that  there 
was  something  more  in  him  than  wild  sallies  of  wit  and  foolish  rhymes.  But  the  farm  lay  high, 
the  bottom  was  wet,  and  in  a  third  season,  indifferent  seed  and  a  wet  harvest  robbed  him  at  once 
of  half  his  crop ;  he  seems  to  have  regarded  this  as  an  intimation  from  above,  that  nothing  which 
he  undertook  wotdd  prosper:  and  consoled  himself  with  joyous  friends  and  with  the  society  cf 
the  muse.  The  judgment  cannot  be  praised  which  selected  a  farm  with  a  wet  cold  bottom,  and 
sowed  it  with  unsound  seed  ;  but  that  man  who  despairs  because  a  wet  season  robs  him  of  the 
fruits  of  the  field,  is  unfit  for  the  warfare  of  life,  where  fortitude  is  as  much  required  as  by  a 
general  on  a  field  of  battle,  when  the  tide  of  success  threatens  to  flow  against  him.  The  poet 
eeems  to  have  believed,  very  early  in  life,  that  he  was  none  of  the  elect  of  Mammon ;  that  he  was  too 
much  of  a  genius  ever  to  acquire  wealth  by  steady  labour,  or  by,  as  he  loved  to  call  it,  gin-hora« 
prudence,  or  grubbing  industry. 

And  yet  there  were  hours  and  days  in  which  Burns,  even  when  the  rain  fell  on  his  unhoused 
Bheaves,  did  not  wholly  despair  of  himself:  he  laboured,  nay  sometimes  he  slaved  on  his  farm; 
and  at  intervals  of  toil,  sought  to  embellish  his  mind  with  such  knowledge  as  might  be  useful, 
should  chance,  the  goddess  who  ruled  his  lot,  drop  him  upon  some  of  the  higher  places  of  thfl 
land.     He  had,  while  he  lived  at  Tajrbolton,  united  with  some  half-dozen  young  men,  all  sons  of 


XXX  LIFE   OF   ROBERT  BURNS. 

farmers  in  that  neighbourhood,  in  forming  a  club,  of  which  the  object  was  to  charm  away  a  fei» 
evening  hours  in  the  week  with  agreeable  chit-chat,  and  the  discussion  of  topics  of  econotay  or 
love.  Of  this  little  society  the  poet  was  president,  and  the  first  question  they  were  called  on  to 
settle  was  this,  *'  Suppose  a  young  man  bred  a  farmer,  but  without  any  fortune,  has  it  in  his 
power  to  marry  either  of  two  women ;  the  one  a  girl  of  large  fortune,  but  neither  handsome  in 
person,  nor  agreeable  in  conversation,  but  who  can  manage  the  household  aflFairs  of  a  farm  well 
enough ;  the  other  of  them,  a  girl  every  way  agreeable  in  person,  conversation,  and  behaviour, 
but  without  any  fortune,  which  of  them  shall  he  choose  ?"  This  question  was  started  by  the 
poet,  and  once  every  week  the  club  were  called  to  thp  consideration  of  matters  connected  with 
rural  life  and  industry :  their  expenses  were  limited  to  threepence  a  week ;  and  till  the  departure 
of  Burns  to  the  distant  Mossgiel,  the  club  continued  to  live  and  thrive ;  on  his  removal  it  lost  the 
spirit  which  gave  it  birth,  and  was  heard  of  no  more  ;  but  its  aims  and  its  usefulness  were  revived 
in  IMauchline,  where  the  poet  was  induced  to  establish  a  society  which  only  differed  from  the 
other  in  spending  the  moderate  fines  arising  from  non-attendance,  on  books,  instead  of  liquor. 
Here,  too.  Burns  was  the  president,  and  the  members  were  chiefly  the  sons  of  husbandmen,  whom 
he  found,  he  said,  more  natural  in  their  manners,  and  more  agreeable  than  the  self-sufficient 
mechanics  of  villages  and  towns,  who  were  ready  to  dispute  on  all  topics,  and  inclined  to  be  con- 
vinced on  none.  This  club  had  the  pleasure  of  subscribing  for  the  first  edition  of  the  works  of 
its  great  associate.  It  has  been  questioned  by  his  first  biographer,  whether  the  refinement  of 
mind,  which  follows  the  reading  of  books  of  eloquence  and  delicacy, — the  mental  improvement 
resulting  from  such  calm  discussions  as  the  Tarbolton  and  Mauchline  clubs  indulged  in,  was  not 
Irjarious  to  men  engaged  in  the  barn  and  at  the  plough,  A  well-ordered  mind  will  be  strength- 
ened, as  well  as  embellished,  by  elegant  knowledge,  while  over  those  naturally  barren  and  ungenial 
all  that  is  refined  or  noble  will  pass  as  a  sunny  shower  scuds  over  lumps  of  granite,  bringing 
neither  warmth  nor  life. 

In  the  account  which  the  poet  gives  to  Moore  of  his  early  poems,  he  says  little  about  his  exqui- 
site lyrics,  and  less  about  "The  Death  and  dying  Words  of  Poor  Mailie,'^  or  her  "Elegy,"  the 
first  of  his  poems  where  the  inspiration  of  the  muse  is  visible ;  but  he  speaks  with  exultation  of 
the  fame  which  those  indecorous  sallies,  "  Holy  Willie's  Prayei*"  and  "The  Holy  Tulzie"  brought 
from  some  of  the  clergy,  and  the  people  of  Ayrshire.  The  west  of  Scotland  is  ever  in  the  van, 
when  matters  either  political  or  religious  are  agitated.  Calvinism  was  shaken,  at  this  time,  with 
a  controversy  among  its  professors,  of  which  it  is  enough  to  say,  that  while  one  party  rigidly 
adhered  to  the  word  and  letter  of  the  Confession  of  Faith,  and  preached  up  the  palmy  and  whole- 
some days  of  the  Covenant,  the  other  sought  to  soften  the  harsher  rules  and  observances  of  the 
kirk,  and  to  bring  moderation  and  charity  into  its  discipline  as  well  as  its  councils.  Both  believed 
themselves  right,  both  were  loud  and  hot,  and  personal, — bitter  with  a  bitterness  only  known  in 
religious  controversy.  The  poet  sided  with  the  professors  of  the  New  Light,  as  the  more  tolerant 
were  called,  and  handled  the  professors  of  the  Old  Light,  as  the  other  party  were  named,  with 
N|  the  most  unsparing  severity.  For  this  he  had  sufficient  cause : — he  had  experienced  the  merci- 
lessness  of  kii-k-discipline,  when  his  frailties  caused  him  to  visit  the  stool  of  repentance ;  and 
moreover  his  friend  Gavin  Hamilton,  a  writer  in  Mauchline,  had  been  sharply  censured  by  the 
same  authorities,  for  daring  to  gallop  on  Sundays.  Moodie,  of  Riccarton,  and  Russel,  of  Kilmar- 
nock, were  the  first  who  tasted  of  the  poet's  wrath.  They,  though  professors  of  the  Old  Light, 
had  quarrelled,  and,  it  is  added,  fought:  "The  Holy  Tulzie,"  which  recorded,  gave  at  the  same 
time  wings  to  the  scandal;  while  for  "Holy  Willie,"  an  elder  of  Mauchline,  and  an  austere  and 
hollow  pretender  to  righteousness,  he  reserved  the  fiercest  of  all  his  lampoons.  In  "  Holy  Willie's 
Prayer,"  he  lays  a  burning  hand  on  the  terrible  doctrine  of  predestination:  this  is  a  satire,  daring, 
personal,  and  profane.  Willie  claims  praise  in  the  singular,  acknowledges  folly  in  the  plural, 
and  makes  heaven  accountable  for  his  sins  !  In  a  similar  strain  of  undevout  satire,  he  congratu- 
lates Goudie,  of  Kilmarnock,  on  his  Essays  on  Revealed  Religion.  These  poems,  particularly  the 
two  latter,  are  the  sharpest  lampoons  in  the  language. 

While  drudging  in  the  cause  of  the  New  Light  controversialists,  Burns  was  not  unconsciously 
strengthening  his  hands  for  worthier  toils :  the  applause  which  selfish  divines  bestowed  on  his 


THE   HOLY    FAiii— HALLOWEEN.  xxxi 

mtty,  but  graceless  effusions,  could  not  be  enough  for  one  who  knew  how  fleeting  the  fame  waa 
which  came  from  the  heat  of  party  disputes ;  nor  was  he  insensible  that  songs  of  a  beauty  unknown 
for  a  century  to  national  poesy,  had  been  unregarded  in  the  hue  and  cry  which  arose  on  account 
of  " Holy  Willie's  Prayer"  and  "The  Holy  Tulzie."  He  hesitated  to  drink  longer  out  of  the 
agitated  puddle  of  Calvinistic  controversy,  he  resolved  to  slake  his  thirst  at  the  pure  well-springs 
of  patriot  feeling  and  domestic  love ;  and  accordingly,  in  the  last  and  best  of  his  controversial 
compositions,  he  rose  out  of  the  lower  regions  of  lampoon  into  the  upper  air  of  true  poetry. 
"  The  Holy  Fair,"  though  stained  in  one  or  two  verses  with  personalities,  exhibits  a  scene  glowing 
with  character  and  incident  and  life :  the  aim  of  the  poem  is  not  so  much  to  satirize  one  or  two 
Old  Light  divines,  as  to  expose  and  rebuke  those  almost  indecent  festivities,  which  in  too  many 
of  the  western  parishes  accompanied  the  administration  of  the  sacrament.  In  the  earlier  days 
of  the  church,  when  men  were  staid  and  sincere,  it  was,  no  doubt,  an  impressive  sight  to  see  rank 
succeeding  rank,  of  the  old  and  the  young,  all  calm  and  all  devout,  seated  before  the  tent  of  the 
preacher,  in  the  sunny  hours  of  June,  listening  to  his  eloquence,  or  partaking  of  the  mystic  bread 
ind  wine ;  but  in  these  our  latter  days,  when  discipline  is  relaxed,  along  with  the  sedate  and  the 
pious  come  swarms  of  the  idle  and  the  profligate,  whom  no  eloquence  can  edify  and  no  solemn 
rite  aff'ect.  On  these,  and  such  as  these,  the  poet  has  poured  his  satire ;  and  since  this  desirable 
reprehension  the  Holy  Fairs,  east  as  well  as  west,  have  become  more  decorous,  if  not  more 
devout. 

His  controversial  sallies  were  accompanied,  or  followed,  by  a  series  of  poems  which  showed 
that  national  character  and  manners,  as  Lockhart  has  truly  and  happily  said,  were  once  more  in 
the  hands  of  a  national  poet.  These  compositions  are  both  numerous  and  various :  they  record 
the  poet's  own  experience  and  emotions ;  they  exhibit  the  highest  moral  feeling,  the  purest  patri 
otic  sentiments,  and  a  deep  sympathy  with  the  fortunes,  both  here  and  hereafter  of  his  fellow-men, 
they  delineate  domestic  manners,  man's  stern  as  well  as  social  hours,  and  mingle  the  serious  with 
the  joyous,  the  sarcastic  with  the  solemn,  the  mournful  with  the  pathetic,  the  amiable  with  the 
gay,  and  all  with  an  ease  and  unafi"ected  force  and  freedom  known  only  to  the  genius  of  Shak- 
speare.  In  "  The  Twa  Dogs"  he  seeks  to  reconcile  the  labourer  to  his  lot,  and  intimates,  by 
examples  drawn  from  the  hall  as  well  as  the  cottage,  that  happiness  resides  in  the  humblest  abodes, 
and  is  even  partial  to  the  clouted  shoe.  In  "Scotch  Drink"  he  excites  man  to  love  his  country, 
by  precepts  both  heroic  and  social ;  and  proves  that  while  wine  and  brandy  are  the  tipple  of 
slaves,  whiskey  and  ale  are  the  drink  of  the  free :  sentiments  of  a  similar  kind  distinguish  his 
«'  Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the  Scotch  Representatives  in  the  House  of  Commons,"  each  of  whom 
he  exhorts  by  name  to  defend  the  remaining  liberties  and  immunities  of  his  country.  A  higher 
tone  distinguishes  the  "Address  to  the  Deil:"  he  records  all  the  names,  and  some  of  them  are 
strange  ones ;  and  all  the  acts,  and  some  of  them  are  as  whimsical  as  they  are  terrible,  of  this 
far  kenned  and  noted  personage ;  to  these  he  adds  some  of  the  fiend's  doings  as  they  stand  in 
Scripture,  together  with  his  own  experiences ;  and  concludes  by  a  hope,  as  unexpected  as  merciful 
and  relenting,  that  Satan  may  not  be  exposed  to  an  eternity  of  torments.  "  The  Dream"  is  a 
hximorous  sally,  and  may  be  almost  regarded  as  prophetic.  The  poet  feigns  himself  present,  in 
slumber,  at  the  Royal  birth-day;  and  supposes  that  he  addresses  his  majesty,  on  his  household 
matters  as  well  as  the  aflFairs  of  the  nation.  Some  of  the  princes,  it  has  been  satirically  hinted, 
behaved  afterwards  in  such  a  way  as  if  they  wished  that  the  scripture  of  the  Burns  should  be 
fulfilled :  in  this  strain  he  has  imitated  the  license  and  equalled  the  wit  of  some  of  the  elder 
Scottish  Poets. 

'•^Th*  Vision"  is  wholly  serious  ;  it  exhibits  the  poet  in  one  of  those  fits  of  despondency  which 
the  dull,  who  have  no  misgivings,  never  know:  he  dwells  with  sarcastic  bitterness  on  the  opportu- 
nities which,  for  the  sake  of  song,  he  has  neglected  of  becoming  wealthy,  and  is  drawing  a  sad 
parallel  between  rags  and  riches,  when  the  muse  steps  in  and  cheers  his  despondency,  by  assuring 
him  of  undying  fame.  "  Halloween"  is  a  strain  of  a  more  homely  kind,  recording  the  super- 
•titious  beliefs,  and  no  less  superstitious  doings  of  Old  Scotland,  on  that  night,  when  witches  and 
elves  and  evil  spirits  are  let  loose  among  the  children  of  men :  it  reaches  far  back  into  manners 
»nd  customs,  and  is  a  picture,  cirious  and  valuable.     The  tastes  and  feelings  of  husbandmen 


xxxii  LIFE   OF   KOBEET   BURNS. 

inspired  "  The  old  Farmer's  Address  to  his  old  mare  Maggie,"  which  exhibits  some  pleasing  recol* 
lections  of  his  days  of  courtship  and  hours  of  sociality.  The  calm,  tranquil  picture  of  household 
happiness  and  devotion  in  '*  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  has  induced  Hogg,  among  others,  to 
believe  that  it  has  less  than  usual  of  the  spirit  of  the  poet,  but  it  has  all  the  spirit  that  was  required ; 
the  toil  of  the  week  has  ceased,  the  labourer  has  returned  to  his  well-ordered  home — his  "  cozie 
ingle  and  his  clean  hearth-stane," — and  with  his  wife  and  children  beside  him,  turns  his  thoughts 
to  the  praise  of  that  God  to  whom  he  owes  all :  this  he  performs  with  a  reverence  and  an  awe, 
at  once  natural,  national,  and  poetic.  "  The  Mouse"  is  a  brief  and  happy  and  very  moving  poem : 
happy,  for  it  delineates,  with  wonderful  truth  and  life,  the  agitation  of  the  mouse  when  the  coulter 
broke  into  its  abode  ;  and  moving,  for  the  poet  takes  the  lesson  of  ruin  to  himself,  and  feels  the 
present  and  dreads  the  future.  "  The  Mountain  Daisy,"  once,  more  properly,  called  by  Burns 
*'  The  Gowan,"  resembles  "  The  Mouse"  in  incident  and  in  moral,  and  is  equally  happy,  in  lan- 
guage and  conception.  "The  Lament"  is  a  dark,  and  all  but  tragic  page,  from  the  poet's  own 
life.  "  Man  was  made  to  Mourn"  takes  the  part  of  the  humble  and  the  homeless,  against  the 
coldness  and  selfishness  of  the  wealthy  and  the  powerful,  a  favourite  topic  of  meditation  with 
Burns.  He  refrained,  for  awhile,  from  making  "  Death  and  Doctor  Hornbook"  public  ;  a  poem 
which  deviates  from  the  offensiveness  of  personal  satire,  into  a  strain  of  humour,  at  once  airy 
and  original. 

His  epistles  in  verse  may  be  reckoned  amongst  his  happiest  productions  :  they  are  written  in 
all  moods  of  mind,  and  are,  by  turns,  lively  and  sad ;  careless  and  serious ; — now  giving  advice, 
then  taking  it ;  laughing  at  learning,  and  lamenting  its  want ;  scoflBng  at  propriety  and  wealth, 
yet  admitting,  that  without  the  one  he  cannot  be  wise,  nor  wanting  the  other,  independent.  The 
Epistle  to  David  Sillar  is  the  first  of  these  compositions :  the  poet  has  no  news  to  tell,  and  no 
serious  question  to  ask :  he  has  only  to  communicate  his  own  emotions  of  joy,  or  of  sorrow,  and 
these  he  relates  and  discusses  with  singular  elegance  as  well  as  ease,  twining,  at  the  same  time,  into 
the  fabric  of  his  composition,  agreeable  allusions  to  the  taste  and  afi^ections  of  his  correspondent. 
He  seems  to  have  rated  the  intellect  of  Sillar  as  the  highest  among  his  rustic  friends :  he  pays  him 
more  deference,  and  addresses  him  in  a  higher  vein  than  he  observes  to  others.  The  Epistles  to 
Lapraik,  to  Smith,  and  to  Rankine,  are  in  a  more  familiar,  or  social  mood,  and  lift  the  veil  from 
the  darkness  of  the  poet's  condition,  and  exhibit  a  mind  of  first-rate  power,  groping,  and  that 
surely,  its  way  to  distinction,  in  spite  of  humility  of  birth,  obscurity  of  condition,  and  the  cold- 
ness of  the  wealthy  or  the  titled.  The  epistles  of  other  poets  owe  some  of  their  fame  to  the  rank 
or  the  reputation  of  those  to  whom  they  are  addressed  ;  those  of  Burns  are  written,  one  and  all, 
to  nameless  and  undistinguished  men.  Sillar  was  a  country  schoolmaster,  Lapraik  a  moorland 
laird,  Smith  a  small  shop-keeper,  and  Rankine  a  farmer,  who  loved  a  gill  and  a  joke.  Yet 
these  men  were  the  chief  friends,  the  only  literary  associates  of  the  poet,  during  those  early 
years,  in  which,  with  some  exceptions,  his  finest  works  were  written. 

Burns,  while  he  was  writing  the  poems,  the  chief  of  which  we  have  named,  was  a  labouring 
husbandman  on  the  little  farm  of  Mossgiel,  a  pursuit  which  afi"ords  but  few  leisure  hours  for  either 
reading  or  pondering ;  but  to  him  the  stubble-field  was  musing-ground,  and  the  walk  behind  the 
plough,  a  twilight  saunter  on  Parnassus.  As,  with  a  careful  hand  and  a  steady  eye,  he  guided 
his  horses,  and  saw  an  evenly  furrow  turned  up  by  the  share,  his  thoughts  were  on  other  themes ; 
he  was  straying  in  haunted  glens,  when  spirits  have  power — ^looking  in  fancy  on  the  lasses 
"skelping  barefoot,"  in  silks  and  in  scarlets,  to  a  field-preaching — walking  in  imagination  with 
the  rosy  widow,  who  on  Halloween  ventured  to  dip  her  left  sleeve  in  the  burn,  where  three  lairds' 
lands  met — making  the  "  bottle  clunk,"  with  joyous  smugglers,  on  a  lucky  run  of  gin  or  brandy — 
or  if  his  thoughts  at  all  approached  his  acts — he  was  moralizing  on  the  daisy  oppressed  by  the 
furrow  which  his  own  ploughshare  had  turned.  That  his  thoughts  were  thus  wandering  we 
have  his  own  testimony,  with  that  of  his  brother  Gilbert ;  and  were  both  wanting,  the  certainty 
that  he  composed  the  greater  part  of  his  immortal  poems  in  two  years,  from  the  summer  of  1784 
to  the  summer  of  1786,  would  be  evidence  siifiicient.  The  muse  must  have  been  strong  within 
him,  when,  in  spite  of  the  rains  and  sleets  of  the  "ever-dropping  west" — when  in  defiance  of  the 
hot  and  sweaty  brows  occasioned  by  reaping  and  thrashing — declining  markets,  and  showery^ 


MOSSGIEL— HIS   FARMING.  xxxiii 

harvests — the  clamour  of  his  laird  for  his  rent,  and  the  tradesman  for  his  account,  he  persevered 
in  song,  and  sought  solace  in  verse,  when  all  other  solace  was  denied  him. 

The  circumstances  under  which  his  principal  poems  were  composed,  have  been  related :  the 
"Lament  of  Mailie"  found  its  origin  in  the  catastrophe  of  a  pet  ewe;  the  *•  Epistle  to  Sillar" 
was  confided  by  the  poet  to  his  brother  while  they  were  engaged  in  weeding  the  kale-yard ;  the 
"Address  to  the  Deil"  was  suggested  by  the  many  strange  portraits  which  belief  or  fear  had 
drawn  of  Satan,  and  was  repeated  by  the  one  brother  to  the  other,  on  the  way  with  their  carts  jo 
the  kiln,  for  lime;  the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  originated  in  the  reverence  with  which  the 
worship  of  God  was  conducted  in  the  family  of  the  poet's  father,  and  in  the  solemn  tone  mth 
which  he  desired  his  children  to  compose  themselves  for  praise  and  prayer;  "the  Mouse,"  and 
its  moral  companion  "the  Daisy,"  were  the  offspring  of  the  incidents  which  they  relate;  au-d 
"Death  and  Doctor  Hornbook"  was  conceived  at  a  freemason-meeting,  where  the  hero  of  the 
piece  had  shown  too  much  of  the  pedant,  and  composed  on  his  way  home,  after  midnight,  by  the 
poet,  while  his  head  was  somewhat  dizzy  with  drink.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  his  compo- 
sitions, the  "Jolly  Beggars,"  a  drama,  to  which  nothing  in  the  language  of  either  the  North  or 
South  can  be  compared,  and  which  was  unknown  till  after  the  death  of  the  author,  was  suggested 
by  a  scene  which  he  saw  in  a  low  ale-house,  into  which,  on  a  Saturday  night,  most  of  the  sturdy 
beggars  of  the  district  had  met  to  sell  their  meal,  pledge  their  superfluous  rags,  and  drink  their 
gains.  It  may  be  added,  that  he  loved  to  walk  in  solitary  spots;  that  his  chief  musing-ground 
was  the  banks  of  the  Ayr ;  the  season  most  congenial  to  his  fancy  that  of  winter,  when  the  winds 
were  heard  in  the  leafless  woods,  and  the  voice  of  the  swollen  streams  came  from  vale  and  hill ; 
and  that  he  seldom  composed  a  whole  poem  at  once,  but  satisfied  with  a  few  fervent  verses,  laid 
the  subject  aside,  till  the  muse  summoned  him  to  another  exertion  of  fancy.  In  a  little  back 
/  closet,  still  existing  in  the  farm-house  of  Mossgiel,  he  commit^d  most  of  his  poems  to  paper. 

But  while  the  poet  rose,  the  farmer  sank.  It  was  not  the  cold  clayey  bottom  of  his  ground, 
nor  the  purchase  of  unsound  seed-corn,  nor  the  fluctuation  in  the  markets  alone,  which  injured 
him ;  neither  was  it  the  taste  for  freemason  socialities,  nor  a  desire  to  join  the  mirth  of  comrades, 
either  of  the  sea  or  the  shore ;  neither  could  it  be  wholly  imputed  to  his  passionate  following  of  the 
softer  sex — indulgence  in  the  "  illicit  rove,"  or  giving  way  to  his  eloquence  at  the  feet  of  one  whom 
he  loverl  and  honoured;  other  farmers  indulged  in  the  one,  or  suffered  from  the  other,  yet  were 
prosperoas.  His  want  of  success  arose  from  other  causes ;  his  heart  was  not  with  nis  task,  save 
by  fits  and  starts:  he  felt  he  was  designed  for  higher  purposes  than  ploughing  jind  harrowing, 
and  sowing,  and  reaping:  when  the  sun  called  on  him,  after  a  shower,  to  come  to  the  plough,  or 
when  the  ripe  corn  invited  the  sickle,  or  the  ready  market  called  for  the  measured  grain,  the 
poet  was  under  other  spells,  and  was  slow  to  avail  himself  of  those  golden  moments,  which  come 
but  once  in  the  season.  To  this  may  be  added,  a  too  superficial  knowledge  of  the  art  of  farming, 
and  a  want  of  intimacy  with  the  nature  of  the  soil  he  was  called  to  cultivate.  He  could  speak 
fluently  of  leas,  and  faughs,  and  fallows,  of  change  of  seed  and  rotation  of  crops,  but  practical 
knowledge  and  application  were  required,  and  in  these  Burns  was  deficient.  The  moderate  gain 
which  those  dark  days  of  agriculture  brought  to  the  economical  farmer,  was  not  obtained :  the 
close,  the  all  but  niggardly  care  by  which  he  could  win  and  keep  his  crown-pieces, — gold  was 
seldom  in  the  farmer's  hand, — was  either  above  or  below  the  mind  of  the  poet,  and  Mossgiel, 
which,  in  the  hands  of  an  assiduous  farmer,  might  have  made  a  reasonable  return  for  labour,  was 
unproductive,  under  one  who  had  little  skill,  less  economy,  and  no  taste  for  the  task. 

Other  reasons  for  his  failure  have  been  assigned.  It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  moral  sentiments 
of  the  husbandmen  of  Scotland,  that  when  one  of  their  class  forgets  what  virtue  requires,  and 
dishonours,  without  reparation,  even  the  humblest  of  the  maidens,  he  is  not  allowed  to  go  unpun- 
sj  ished.  No  proceedings  take  place,  perhaps  one  hard  word  is  not  spoken ;  but  he  is  regarded  with 
loathing  by  the  old  and  the  devout;  he  is  looked  on  by  all  with  cold  and  reproachful  eyes — sorrow 
is  foretold  as  his  lot,  sure  disaster  as  his  fortune ;  and  if  these  chance  to  arrive,  the  only  sympathy 
expressed  is,  "What  better  could  he  expect?"  Something  of  this  sort  befel  Burns:  he  had 
already  satisfied  the  kirk  in  the  matter  of  "  Sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess,"  his  daughter, 
by  one  of  his  mother's  maids  ;  and  bow,  to  use  his  own  words,  he  was  brought  within  point-blank 


t^rMr  (tL  ,) 


(X^YNrv^i  ^'- 


>7 


/ 


/•■ 


xxxiv  LIFE   OF   EGBERT   BUKNS. 

of  the  heaviest  metal  of  the  kirk  by  a  similar  folly.  The  fair  transgressor,  both  for  her  father'i 
sake  and  her  own  youth,  had  a  large  share  of  public  sympathy.  Jean  Armour,  for  it  is  of  her  1 
speak,  -was  in  her  eighteenth  year;  with  dark  eyes,  a  handsome  foot,  and  a  melodious  tongue,  she 
made  her  way  to  the  poet's  heart — and,  as  their  stations  in  life  were  equal,  it  seemed  that  they 
had  only  to  be  satisfied  themselves  to  render  their  unioit  easy.  But  her  father,  in  addition  to 
being  a  very  devout  man,  was  a  zealot  of  the  Old  Light;  and  Jean,  dreading  his  resentment, 
was  willing,  while  she  loved  its  unforgiven  satirist,  to  love  him  in  secret,  in  the  hope  that  the 
time  would  come  when  she  migM  safely  avow  it:  she  admitted  the  poet,  therefore,  to  her  company 
In  lonesome  places,  and  walks  beneath  the  moon,  where  they  both  forgot  themselves,  and  wer«  at 
last  obliged  to  own  a  private  marriage  as  a  protection  from  kirk  censure.  The  professors  of  the 
Old  Light  rejoiced,  since  it  brought  a  scoffing  rhymer  within  reach  of  their  hand;  but  her  father 
felt  a  twofold  sorrow,  because  of  the  shame  of  a  favourite  daughter,  and  for  having  committed 
the  folly  with  one  both  loose  in  conduct  and  profane  of  speech.  He  had  cause  to  be  angry,  but 
his  anger,  through  his  zeal,  became  tyrannous :  in  the  exercise  of  what  he  called  a  father's  power, 
he  compelled  his  child  to  renounce  the  poet  as  her  husband  and  burn  the  marriage-lines ;  for  he 
regarded  her  marriage,  without  the  kirk's  permission,  with  a  man  so  utterly  cast  away,  as  a  worse 
crime  than  her  folly.(  So  blind  is  anger !  She  could  renounce  neither  her  husband  uri*  his  off- 
spring in  a  lawful  way,  and  in  spite  of  the  destruction  of  the  marriage  lines,  and  renouncinji'  vi« 
name  of  wife,  she  was  as  much  Mrs.  Burns  as  marriage  could  make  her.  No  one  concerned  seemed 
to  think  so.  Burns,  who  loved  her  tenderly,  went  all  but  mad  when  she  renounced  him  :  he  gave 
up  his  share  of  Mossgiel  to  his  brother,  and  roamed,  moody  and  idle,  about  the  land,  with  no 
better  aim  in  life  than  a  situation  in  one  of  our  western  sugar-isles,  and  a  vague  hope  of  distinction 
as  a  poet. 

How  the  distinction  which  he  desired  as  a  poet  was  to  be  obtained,  was,  to  a  poor  bard  in  a 
provincial  place,  a  sore  puzzle :  there  were  no  enterprising  booksellers  in  the  western  land,  and 
it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  the  printers  of  either  Kilmarnock  or  Paisley  had  money  to  expend 
on  a  speculation  in  rhyme :  it  is  much  to  the  honour  of  his  native  county  that  the  publication 
Which  he  wished  for  was  at  last  made  easy.  The  best  of  his  poems,  in  his  own  handwriting,  had 
found  their  way  into  the  hands  of  the  Ballantynes,  Hamiltons,  Parkers,  and  Mackenzies,  and  were 
much  admired.  Mrs.  Stewart,  of  Stair  and  Afton,  a  lady  of  distinction  and  taste,  had  made, 
accidentally,  the  acquaintance  both  of  Burns  and  some  of  his  songs,  and  was  ready  to  befriend 
him ;  and  so  favourable  was  the  impression  on  all  hands,  Vthat  a  subscription^-  sufficient  to  defray 
^e  outlay  of  paper  and  print,  was  soon  filled  up — one  hundred  copies  being  subscribed  for  by  the 
iA*arkers  alone.  He  soon  arranged  materials  for  a  volume,  and  put  them  into  the  hands  of  a  printer 
"in  Kilmarnock,  the  Wee  Johnnie  of  one  of  his  biting  epigrams.  Johnnie  was  startled  at  the 
unceremonious  freedom  of  most  of  the  pieces,  and  asked  the  poet  to  compose  one  of  modest  lan- 
guage and  moral  aim,  to  stand  at  the  beginning,  and  excuse  some  of  those  fi'ee  ones  which  followed : 
Burns,  whose  "  Twa  Dogs"  was  then  incomplete,  finished  the  poem  at  a  sitting,  and  put  it  in  the 
van,  much  to  his  printer's  satisfaction.  If  the  "Jolly  Beggars"  was  omitted  for  any  other  cause 
^han  its  freedom  of  sentiment  and  language,  or  "  Death  and  Doctor  Hornbook"  from  any  other 
feeling  than  that  of  being  too  personal,  the  causes  of  their  exclusion  have  remained  a  secret.  It 
•is  less  easy  to  account  for  the  omission  of  many  songs  of  high  merit  which  he  had  among  his 
.papers:  perhaps  he  thought  those  which  he  selected  were  sufficient  to  test  the  taste  of  the 
1 1  public.  Before  he  printed  the  whole,  he,  with  the  consent  of  his  brother,  altered  his  name  from 
"Burness  to  Burns,  a  change  which,  I  am  told,  he  in  after  years  regretted. 

In  the  summer  of  the  year  1786,  the  little  volume,  big  with  the  hopes  and  fortunes  of  the  bard, 
made  its  appearance  :  it  was  entitled  simply,  "  Poems,  chiefly  in  the  Scottish  Dialect;  by  Robert 
Burns  ;"  and  accompanied  by  a  modest  preface,  saying,  that  he  submitted  his  book  to  his  country 
with  fear  and  with  trembling,  since  it  contained  little  of  the  art  of  poesie,  and  at  the  best  was 
but  a  voice  given,  rude,  he  feared,  and  uncouth,  to  the  loves,  the  hopes,  and  the  fears  of  his  own 
bosom.  Had  a  summer  sun  risen  on  a  winter  morning,  it  could  not  have  surprised  the  Lowlands 
of  Scotland  more  than  this  Kilmarnock  volume  surprised  and  delighted  the  people,  one  and  all. 
The  milkmaid  sang  his  songs,  the  ploughman  repeated  his  poems ;  the  old  quoted  both,  and  even 


HIS   Firt8T   VOLUxME   OF  POEMS. 


/ 


the  devout  rejoiced  that  idle  verse  had  at  last  mixed  a  tone  of  morality  with  its  mirth.  The 
\o'ume  penetrated  even  into  Nithsdale.  "  Keep  it  out  of  tlie  way  of  your  children,"  said  a 
Cameronian  divine,  when  he  lent  it  to  my  father,  "  lest  ye  find  them,  as  I  found  mine,  reading  it 
,on  the  Sabbath."  No  wonder  that  such  a  volume  made  its  way  to  the  hearts  of  a  peasantry 
whose  taste  in  poetry  had  been  the  marvel  of  many  writers :  the  poems  were  mostly  on  topic? 
with  which  they  were  familiar:  the  language  was  that  of  the  fireside,  raised  above  the  vulgarities 
of  common  life,  by  a  purifying  spirit  of  expression  and  the  exalting  fervour  of  inspiration :  and 
there  was  such  a  brilliant  and  graceful  mixture  of  the  elegant  and  the  homely,  the  lofty  and  the- 
low,  the  familiar  and  the  elevated — such  a  rapid  succession  of  scenes  which  moved  to  tenderness 
or  tears ;  or  to  subdued  mirth  or  open  laughter — unlooked  for  allusions  to  scripture,  or  touches 
of  sarcasm  and  scandal — of  superstitions  to  scare,  and  of  humour  to  delight — while  through  the 
whole  was  diffused,  as  the  scent  of  flowers  through  summer  air,  a  moral  meaning — a  sentimental 
beauty,  which  sweetened  and  sanctified  all.  The  poet's  expectations  from  this  little  venture  were 
humble  :  he  hoped  as  much  money  from  it  as  would  pay  for  his  passage  to  the  West  Indies,  where 
ie  proposed  to  enter  into  the  service  of  some  of  the  Scottish  settlers,  and  help  to  manage  the 
double  mystery  of  sugar-making  and  slavery. 

The  hearty  applause  which  I  have  recorded  came  chiefly  from  the  husbandman,  the  shepherd, 
and  the  mechanic :  the  approbation  of  the  magnates  of  the  west,  though  not  less  warm,  was 
longer  in  coming.  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair,  indeed,  commended  the  poems  and  cheered  their 
author :  Dugald  Stewart  received  his  visits  with  pleasure,  and  wondered  at  his  vigour  of  couver- 
Bation  as  much  as  at  his  muse :  the  door  of  the  house  of  Hamilton  was  open  to  him,  where  the 
table  was  ever  spread,  and  the  hand  ever  ready  to  help :  while  the  purses  of  the  Ballantynes 
Mid  the  Parkers  were  always  as  open  to  him  as  were  the  doors  of  their  houses.  Those  persons 
^ust  be  regarded  as  the  real  patrons  of  the  poet :  the  high  names  of  the  district  are  not  to  be 
found  among  those  who  helped  him  with  purse  and  patronage  in  1786,  that  year  of  deep  distress 
ami  high  distinction.  The  Montgomery s  came  with  their  praise  when  his  fame  was  up ;  the 
Kennedys  and  the  Boswells  were  silent :  and  though  the  Cunninghams  gave  effectual  aid,  it  was 
when  the  muse  was  crying  with  a  loud  voice  before  him,  "  Come  all  and  see  the  man  whom  I 
delight  to  honour."  It  would  be  unjust  as  well  as  ungenerous  not  to  mention  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Dunlop  among  the  poet's  best  and  early  patrons :  the  distance  at  which  she  lived  from  Mossgiel 
had  kept  his  name  from  her  till  his  poems  appeared :  but  his  works  induced  her  to  desire  his 
acquaintance,  and  she  became  his  warmest  and  surest  friend. 

To  say  the  truth,  Burns  endeavoured  in  every  honourable  way  to  obtain  the  notice  of  those  who 
had  influence  in  the  land :  he  copied  out  the  best  of  his  unpublished  poems  in  a  fair  hand,  and 
inserting  them  in  his  printed  volume,  presented  it  to  those  who  seemed  slow  to  buy :  he  rewarded 
the  notice  of  this  one  with  a  song — the  attentions  of  that  one  with  a  sally  of  encomiastic  verse : 
he  left  psalms  of  his  own  composing  in  the  manse  when  he  feasted  with  a  divine :  he  enclosed 
"  Holy  Willie's  Prayer,"  with  an  injunction  to  be  grave,  to  one  who  loved  mirth:  he  sent  tht\ 
*'  Holy  Fair"  to  one  whom  he  invited  to  drink  a  gill  out  of  a  mutchkin  stoup,  at  Mauchline 
market ;  and  on  accidentally  meeting  with  Lord  Daer,  he  immediately  commemorated  the  event 
in  a  sally  of  verse,  of  a  strain  more  free  and  yet  as  flattering  as  ever  flowed  from  the  lips  of  a 
court  bard.  While  musing  over  the  names  of  those  on  whom  fortune  had  smiled,  yet  who  had  / 
neglected  to  smile  on  him,  he  remembered  that  he  had  met  Miss  Alexander,  a  young  beauty  of  / 
the  west,  in  the  walks  of  Ballochmyle ;  and  he  recorded  the  impression  which  this  fair  visicn 
made  on  him  in  a  song  of  unequalled  eleganc*^  and  melody.  He  had  met  her  in  the  woods  in 
July,  on  the  18th  of  November  he  sent  her  the  song,  and  reminded  her  of  the  circumstance  from 
which  it  arose,  in  a  letter  which  it  is  evident  he  had  laboured  to  render  polished  and  complimen- 
tary. The  young  lady  took  no  notice  of  either  the  song  or  the  poet,  though  willing,  it  is  said,  to 
hear  of  both  now : — this  seems  to  have  been  the  last  attempt  he  made  on  the  taste  or  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  gentrj'  of  his  native  district :  for  on  the  very  day  following  we  find  him  busy  in  mak- 
ing arrangements  for  his  departure  to  Jamaica. 

^For  this  step  Burns  had  more  than  sufficient  reasons  :  the  profits  of  his  volume  amounted  in 
ittle  more  than  enough  to  waft  him  across  the  Atlantic  :  Wee  Johnnie,  though  the  editica  waa 


xxxvi  LIFE   OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 

all  sold,  refused  to  risk  another  on  speculation :  his  friends,  both  Ballantynes  and  Parken, 
volunteered  to  relieve  the  printer's  anxieties,  but  the  poet  declined  their  bounty,  and  gloomily 
indented  himself  in  a  sliip  about  to  sail  from  Greenock,  and  called  on  his  muse  to  take  farewell 
of  Caledonia,  in  the  last  song  he  ever  expected  to  measure  in  his  native  land.  That  fine  lyric, 
beo"inning  "The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast,"  was  the  offspring  of  these  moments  of  regret 
and  sorrow.  His  feelings  were  not  expressed  in  song  alone :  he  remembered  his  mother  and  his 
natural  daughter,  and  made  an  assignment  of  all  that  pertained  to  him  at  Mossgiel — and  that 
was  but  little — and  of  all  the  advantage  which  a  cruel,  unjust,  and  insulting  law  allowed  in  the 

V  pioceeds  of  his  poems,  for  their  support  and  behoof.  This  document  was  publicly  read  in  the 
I  i^presence  of  the  poet,  at  the  market-cross  of  Ayr,  by  his  friend  William  Chalmers,  a  notary  public. 
Even  this  step  was  to  Bui'ns  one  of  danger :  some  ill-advised  person  had  uncoupled  the  merciless 
pack  of  the  law  at  his  heels,  and  he  was  obliged  to  shelter  himself  as  he  best  could,  in  woods,  it  is 
said,  by  day  and  in  barns  by  night,  till  the  final  hour  of  his  departure  came.  That  hour  arrived, 
and  his  chest  was  on  the  way  to  the  ship,  when  a  letter  was  put  into  his  hand  which  seemed  to 
light  him  to  brighter  prospects. 

Among  the  friends  whom  his  merits  had  procured  him  was  Dr.  Laurie,  a  district  clergyman, 
who  had  taste  enough  to  admire  the  deep  sensibilities  as  well  as  the  humour  of  the  poet,  and  the 
generosity  to  make  known  both  his  works  and  his  worth  to  the  warm-hearted  and  amiable  Black- 
lock,  who  boldly  proclaimed  him  a  poet  of  the  first  rank,  and  lamented  that  he  was  not  in  Edinburgh 
to  publish  another  edition  of  his  poems.     Burns  was  ever  a  man  of  impulse  :  he  recalled  his  chest 

f  from  Greenock ;  he  relinquished  the  situation  he  had  accepted  on  the  estate  of  one  Douglas  ;  took 
a  secret  leave  of  his  mother,  and,  without  an  introduction  to  any  one,  and  unknown  personally  to 

^  all,  save  to  Dugald  Stewart,  away  he  walked,  through  Glenap,  to  Edinburgh,  full  of  new  hope 

/    and  confiding  in  his  genius.     When  he  arrived,  he  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  :  he  hesitated  to  call 
on  the  professor ;  he  refrained  from  making  himself  known,  as  it  has  been  supposed  he  did,  to 
the  enthusiastic  Blacklock ;  but,  sitting  down  in  an  obscure  lodging,  he  sought  out  an  obscure 
printer,  recommended  by  a  humble  comrade  from  Kyle,  and  began  to  negotiate  for  a  new  edition 
-Sof  the  Poems  of  the  Ayrshire  Ploughman,     This  was  not  the  way  to  go  about  it:  his  barge  hixd 

/  well  nigh  been  shipwrecked  in  the  launch ;  and  he  might  have  lived  to  regret  the  letter  which 
hindered  his  voyage  to  Jamaica,  had  he  not  met  by  chance  in  the  street  a  gentleman  of  the  west, 
of  the  name  of%  Dalzell^who  introduced  him  to  the  Earl  of  G>l-e»«airn,  a  nobleman  whose  classic 
education  did  no^  TTurt  his  taste  for  Scottish  poetry,  and  who  was  not  too  proud  to  lend  his  help- 
ing hand  to  a  rustic  stranger  of  such  merit  as  Burns.  Cunningham  carried  him  to  Creech,  then 
the  Murray  of  Edinburgh,  a  shrewd  man  of  business,  who  opened  the  poet's  eyes  to  his  true 
interests :  the  first  proposals,  then  all  but  issued,  were  put  in  the  fire,  and  new  ones  printed  and 
diffused  over  the  island.     The  subscription  was  headed  by  half  the  noblemen  of  the  north  :  the 

I  Caledonian  Hunt,  through  the  interest  of  Glencairn,  took  six  hundred  copies :  duchesses  and 
countesses  swelled  the  list,  and  such  a  crowding  to  write  down  names  had  not  been  witnessed 
since  the  signing  of  the  solemn  league  and  covenant. 

While  the  subscription-papers  were  filling  and  the  new  volume  printing  on  a  paper  and  in  a 
type  worthy  of  such  high  patronage.  Burns  remained  in  Edinburgh,  where,  for  the  winter  season, 
he  was  a  lion,  and  one  of  an  unwonted  kind.  Philosophers,  historians,  and  scholars  had  shaken 
/the  elegant  coteries  of  the  city  with  their  wit,  or  enlightened  them  with  their  learning,  but  they 
wers  all  men  who  had  been  polished  by  polite  letters  or  by  intercourse  with  high  life,  and  there 
was  a  sameness  in  their  very  dress  as  well  as  address,  of  which  peers  and  peeresses  had  become 

I  weary.  They  therefore  welcomed  this  rustic  candidate  for  the  honour  of  giving  wings  to  their 
hours  of  lassitude  and  weariness,  with  a  welcome  more  than  common ;  and  when  his  approach 
was  announced,  the  polished  <  ircle  looked  for  the  advent  of  a  lout  from  the  plough,  in  whose 
.uncouth  manners  and  embarrassed  address  they  might  find  matter  both  for  mirth  and  wonder. 
I  But  they  met  with  a  barbarian  who  was  not  at  all  barbarous  :  as  the  poet  met  in  Lord  Daer  feel- 
[ings  and  sentiments  as  natural  as  those  of  a  ploughman,  so  they  met  in  a  ploughman  manners 
rorthy  of  a  lord:  his  air  was  easy  and  unperplexed:  his  address  was  perfectly  well-bred,  and 
elegant  in  its  simplicity :    he  felt  neither  eclipsed  by  the  titled  nor  struck  dumb  before  the 


HIGHLAND   MARY.  xxxvn 


learned  and  the  eloquent,  but  took  his  station  with  the  ease  and  grace  of  one  born  to  it.  In  th« 
society  of  men  alone  he  spoke  out :  he  spared  neither  his  wit,  his  humour,  nor  his  sarcasm — he 
Beemed  to  say  to  all — * '  I  am  a  man,  and  you  are  no  more ;  and  why  should  I  not  act  and  speak 
vlike  one  ?" — it  was  remarked,  however,  that  he  had  not  learnt,  or  did  not  desire,  to  conceal  his 
emotions — that  he  commended  with  more  rapture  than  was  courteous,  and  contradicted  with  mare 
tluntness  than  was  accounted  polite.  It  was  thus  with  him  in  the  company  of  men :  when  woman 
Approached,  his  look  altered,  his  eye  beamed  milder  ;  all  that  was  stern  in  his  nature  underwent 
a  change,  and  he  received  them  with  deference,  but  with  a  consciousness  that  he  couli  win  theii 
attention  as  he  had  won  that  of  others,  who  diflfered,  indeed,  from  them  only  in  the  tcxtuie  of 
their  kirtles.  This  natural  power  of  rendering  himself  acceptable  to  women  had  been  observed 
and  envied  by  Sillar,  one  of  the  dearest  of  his  early  comrades;  and  it  stood  him  in  good  stead  now, 
Vhen  he  was  the  object  to  whom  ihe  Duchess  of  Gordon,  the  loveliest  as  well  as  the  wittiest  of 
women — directed  her  discourse.; /Burns,  she  afterwards  said,  won  the  attention  of  the  Edinburgh 
ladies  by  a  deferential  way  of  address — by  an  ease  and  natural  grace  of  manners,  as  new  as  it 
as  unexpected — that  he  told  them  the  stories  of  some  of  his  tenderest  songs  or  liveliest  poema 
a  style  quite  magical — enriching  his  little  narratives,  which  had  one  and  all  the  merit  of  being 
hort,  with  personal  incidents  of  humour  or  of  pathos. 

In  a  party,  when  Dr.  Blair  and  Professor  Walker  were  present.  Burns  related  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  had  composed  his  melancholy  song,  "  The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast,"  in  a 
way  even  more  touching  than  the  verses :  and  in  the  company  of  the  ruling  beauties  of  the  time, 
he  hesitated  not  to  lift  the  veil  from  some  of  the  tenderer  parts  of  his  own  history,  and  give  them 
glimpses  of  the  romance  of  rustic  life.  A  lady  of  birth — one  of  his  most  willing  listeners — used, 
I  am  told,  to  say,  that  she  should  never  forget  the  tale  which  he  related  of  his  affection  for  Mary 
Campbell,  his  Highland  Mary,  as  he  loved  to  call  her.  She  was  fair,  he  said,  and  affectionate, 
and  as  guileless  as  she  was  beautiful ;  and  beautiful  he  thought  her  in  a  very  high  degree.  The 
first  time  he  saw  her  was  during  one  of  his  musing  walks  in  the  woods  of  Montgomery  Castle  ;  and 
the  first  time  he  spoke  to  her  was  during  the  merriment  of  a  harvest-kirn.  There  were  others 
there  who  admired  her,  but  he  addressed  her,  and  had  the  luck  to  win  her  regard  from  them  all. 
He  soon  found  that  she  was  the  lass  whom  he  had  long  sought,  but  never  before  found — that  her 
good  looks  were  surpassed  by  her  good  sense ;  and  her  good  sense  was  equalled  by  her  discretion 
and  modesty.  He  met  her  frequently :  she  saw  by  his  looks  that  he  was  sincere ;  she  put  full 
trust  in  his  love,  and  used  to  wander  with  him  among  the  green  knowes  and  stream-banks  till  the 
Bun  went  down  and  the  moon  rose,  talking,  dreaming  of  love  and  the  golden  days  which  awaited 
them.  He  was  poor,  and  she  had  only  her  half-year's  fee,  for  she  was  in  the  condition  of  a  ser- 
vant ;  but  thoughts  of  gear  never  dai-kened  their  dream :  they  resolved  to  wed,  and  exchanged 
vows  of  constancy  and  love.  They  plighted  their  vows  on  the  Sabbath  to  render  them  more 
sacred — they  made  them  by  a  burn,  where  they  had  courted,  that  open  nature  might  be  a  witness 
— they  made  them  over  an  open  Bible,  to  show  that  they  thought  of  God  in  this  mutual  act — and 
when  they  had  done  they  both  took  water  in  their  hands,  and  scattered  it  in  the  air,  to  intimate 
that  as  the  stream  was  pure  so  were  their  intentions.     They  parted  when  they  did  this,  but  they 

i parted  never  to  meet  more  :  she  died  in  a  burning  fever,  during  a  visit  to  her  relations  to  prepare 
for  her  marriage ;  and  all  that  he  had  of  her  was  a  lock  of  her  long  bright  hair,  and  her  Bible, 
which  she  exchanged  for  his. 
Even  with  the  tales  which  he  related  of  rustic  love  and  adventure  his  own  story  mingled ;  and 
ladies  of  rank  heard,  for  the  first  time,  that  in  all  that  was  romantic  in  the  passion  of  love,  »iid 
in  all  that  was  chivalrous  in  sentiment,  men  of  distinction,  both  by  education  and  birth,  were  at 
least  equalled  by  the  peasantry  of  the  land.  They  listened  with  interest,  and  inclined  their 
feathers  beside  the  bard,  to  hear  how  love  went  on  in  the  west,  and  in  no  case  it  ran  quite  smooth. 
Sometimes  young  hearts  were  kept  asunder  by  the  sordid  feelings  of  parents,  who  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  bestow  their  daughter,  perhaps  an  only  one,  on  a  wooer  who  could  not  count  penny 
for  penny,  and  number  cow  for  cow:  sometimes  a  mother  desired  her  daughter  to  look  higher  than 
to  one  of  her  station  ;  for  her  beauty  and  her  education  entitled  her  to  match  among  the 
lairds,  -"ather  than  the  tenants;  and  sometimes,  the  devotional  tastes  of  both  father  and  mother, 


1/ 


xxxviii  LIFE   OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 

approving  of  i)ersonal  looks  and  connexions,  were  averse  to  see  a  daughter  bestow  her  hand  on 
one,  whoso  language  in  religion  was  indiscreet,  and  whose  morals  were  suspected.  Yet,  neither 
the  vigilance  of  fathers,  nor  the  suspicious  care  of  aunts  and  mothers,  could  succeed  in  keeping 
those  asunder  whose  hearts  were  together ;  but  in  these  meetings  circumspection  and  invention 
were  necessary :  all  fears  were  to  be  lulled  by  the  seeming  carelessness  of  the  lass, — all  perils 
were  to  be  met  and  braved  by  the  spirit  of  the  lad.  His  home,  perhaps,  was  at  a  distance,  and 
he  had  wild  woods  to  come  through,  and  deep  streams  to  pass,  before  he  could  see  the  signal-light, 
now  shown  and  now  withdrawn,  at  her  window ;  he  had  to  approach  with  a  quick  eye  and  a  wary 
foot,  lest  a  father  or  a  brother  should  see,  and  deter  him :  he  had  sometimes  to  wish  for  a  cloud 
upon  the  moon,  whose  light,  welcome  to  him  on  his  way  in  the  distance,  was  likely  to  betray  him 
when  near  ;  and  he  not  unfrequently  reckoned  a  wild  night  of  wind  and  rain  as  a  blessing,  since 
it  helped  to  conceal  his  coming,  and  proved  to  his  mistress  that  he  was  ready  to  brave  all  for  her 
sake.  Of  rivals  met  and  baffled  ;  of  half-willing  and  half-unconsenting  maidens,  persuaded  and 
won ;  of  the  light-hearted  and  the  careless  becoming  aflFectionate  and  tender ;  and  the  coy,  the 
proud,  and  the  satiric  being  gained  by  "persuasive  words,  and  more  persuasive  sighs,"  as  dames 
had  been  gained  of  old,  he  had  tales  enow.  The  ladies  listened,  and  smiled  at  the  tender  narra- 
tives of  the  poet. 

Of  his  appearan^  among  the  sons  as  well  as  the  daughters  of  men,  we  have  the  account  of 
Dugald  Stewart.  ,/^Burns,"  says  the  philosopher,  "  came  to  Edinburgh  early  in  the  winter:  the 
attentions  which  he  received  from  all  ranks  and  descriptions  of  persons,  were  such  as  would  have 
turned  any  head  but  his  own.  He  retained  the  same  simplicity  of  manners  and  appearance  wh^flh 
had  struck  me  so  forcibly  when  I  first  saw  him  in  the  country  :  his  dress  was  suited  to  his  station ; 
plain  and  unpretending,  with  sufficient  attention  to  neatness :  he  always  wore  boots,  and,  when  on 
more  than  usual  ceremony,  buckskin  breeches.  His  manners  were  manly,  simple,  and  independent ; 
strongly  expressive  of  conscious  genius  and  worth,  but  without  any  indication  of  forwardness, 
arrogance,  or  vanity.  He  took  his  share  in  conversation,  but  not  more  than  belonged  to  him, 
and  listened  with  apparent  deference  on  subjects  where  his  want  of  education  deprived  him  of 
the  means  of  information.  "Jff  there  had  been  a  little  more  of  gentleness  and  accommodation  in 
Ms  temper,  he  would  have  been  still  more  interesting ;  but  he  had  been  accustomed  to  give  law 
jin  the  circle  of  his  ordinary  acquaintance,  and  his  dread  of  anything  approaching  to  meanness  or 
JBervility,  rendered  his  manner  somewhat  decided  and  hard.  Nothing  perhaps  was  more  remark- 
lable  among  his  various  attainments,  than  the  fluency  and  precision  and  originality  of  language, 
I  when  he  spoke  in  company ;  more  particularly  as  he  aimed  at  purity  in  his  turn  of  expression, 
and  avoided  more  successfully  than  most  Scotsmen,  the  peculiarities  of  Scottish  phraseology. 
From  his  conversation  I  should  have  pronounced  him  to  have  been  fitted  to  excel  in  whatever 
walk  of  ambition  he  had  chosen  to  exert  his  abilities.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  the  beauties 
of  nature,  and  I  recollect  he  once  told  me,  when  I  was  admiring  a  distant  prospect  in  one  of  our 
morning  walks,  that  the  sight  of  so  many  smoking  cottages  gave  a  pleasure  to  his  mind,  which 
none  could  understand  who  had  not  witnessed,  like  himself,  the  happiness  and  worth  which  cot- 
tages contained." 

Such  was  the  impression  which  Burns  made  at  first  on  the  fair,  the  titled,  and  the  learned  of 
Edinburgh ;  an  impression  which,  though  lessened  by  intimacy  and  closer  examination  on  the 

\part  of  the  men,  remained  unimpaired,  on  that  of  the  softer  sex,  till  his  dying-day.  His  com- 
pany, during  the  season  of  balls  and  festivities,  continued  to  be  courted  by  all  who  desired  to  be 
reckoned  gay  or  polite.  Cards  of  invitation  fell  thick  on  him ;  he  was  not  more  welcome  to  the 
plumed  and  jewelled  groups,  whom  her  fascinating  Grace  of  Gordon  gathered  about  her,  than  he 
was  to  the  grave  divines  and  polished  scholars,  who  assembled  in  the  rooms  of  Stewart,  or  Blair, 
or  Robertson.  The  classic  socialities  of  Tytler,  afterwards  Lord  Woodhouslee,  or  the  elaborate 
9upper-tables  of  the  whimsical  Monboddo,  whose  guests  imagined  they  were  entertained  in  the 
manner  of  Lucullus  or  of  Cicero,  were  not  complete  without  the  presence  of  the  ploughman  of 
Kyle ;  and  the  feelings  of  the  rustic  poet,  facing  such  companies,  though  of  surprise  and  delight 
^t  first,  gradually  subsided,  he  said,  as  he  discerned,  that  man  differed  from  man  only  in  the 
polish,  and  not  in  the  grain.     But  Edinburgh  offered  tables    and  entertainers  of  a  less  order!/ 


'i 


SOCIETY  OF  EDINBURGH.  xxxiz 

Pad  staid  character  than  those  I  have  named — where  the  glass  circulated  with  greater  rapidity  ; 
here  the  wit  flowed  more  freely ;  and  where  there  were  neither  highbred  ladies  to  charm  cou- 
"ersation  within  the  bounds  of  modesty,  nor  serious  philosophers,  nor  grave  divines,  to  set  a  limit 

o  the  license  of  speech,  or  the  hours  of  enjoyment.     To  these  companions — and  these  were  all 
the  better  classes,  the  levities  of  the  rustic  poet's  wit  and  humour  were  as  welcome  as  were 

he  tenderest  of  his  narratives  to  the  accomplished  Duchess  of  Gordon  and  the  beautiful  Miss 
JBurnet  of  Monboddo ;  they  raised  a  social  roar  not  at  all  classic,  and  demanded  and  provoked 
Jhis  sallies  of  wild  humour,  or  indecorous  mirth,  with  as  much  delight  as  he  had  witnessed  among 
the  lads  of  Kyle,  when,  at  mill  or  forge,  his  humorous  sallies  abounded  as  the  ale  flowed.  ]u 
these  enjoyments  the  rough,  but  learned  William  Nicol,  and  the  young  and  amiable  Robert  Ains- 
lie  shared :  the  name  of  the  poet  was  coupled  with  those  of  profane  wits,  free  livers,  and  that 
class  of  half-idle  gentlemen  who  hang  about  the  courts  of  law,  or  for  a  season  or  two  wear  the 
livery  of  Mars,  and  handle  cold  iron. 

Edinburgh  had  still  another  class  of  genteel  convivialists,  to  whom  the  poet  was  attracted  by 
principles  as  well  as  by  pleasure  ;  these  were  the  relics  of  that  once  numerous  body,  the  Jacobites, 
who  still  loved  to  cherish  the  feelings  of  birth  or  education  rather  than  of  judgment,  and  toasted 
the  name  of  Stuart,  when  the  last  of  the  race  had  renounced  his  pretensions  to  a  throne,  for  the 
sake  of  peace  and  the  cross.  Young  men  then,  and  high  names  were  among  them,  annually  met 
on  the  pretender's  birth-day,  and  sang  songs  in  which  the  white  rose  of  Jacobitism  flourished ; 
toasted  toasts  announcing  adherence  to  the  male  line  of  the  Bruce  and  the  Stuart,  and  listened 
to  the  strains  of  the  laureate  of  the  day,  who  prophesied,  in  drink,  the  dismissal  of  the  intrusive 
Hanoverian,  by  the  right  and  might  of  the  righteous  and  disinherited  line.  Burns,  who  was 
descended  from  a  northern  race,  whose  father  was  suspected  of  having  drawn  the  claymore  in 
1745,  and  who  loved  the  blood  of  the  Keith-Marishalls,  under  whose  banners  his  ancestors  had 
marched,  readily  united  himself  to  a  band  in  whose  sentiments,  political  and  social,  he  was  a  sharer Ir 
He  was  received  with  acclamation :  the  dignity  of  laureate  was  conferred  upon  him,  and  hia 
inauguration  ode,  in  which  he  recalled  the  names  and  the  deeds  of  the  Grahams,  the  Erskines, 
the  Boyds,  and  the  Gordons,  was  applauded  for  its  fire,  as  well  as  for  its  sentiments.  Yet,  though 
he  ate  and  drank  and  sang  with  Jacobites,  he  was  only  as  far  as  sympathy  and  poesie  went,  of 
their  number :  his  reason  renounced  the  principles  and  the  religion  of  the  Stuart  line  ;  and  though 
he  shed  a  tear  over  their  fallen  fortunes — though  he  sympathized  with  the  brave  and  honourable 
names  that  perished  in  their  cause — though  he  cursed  "the  butcher,  Cumberland,"  and  the  bloody 
spirit  which  commanded  the  heads  of  the  good  and  the  heroic  to  be  stuck  where  they  would  affright 
the  passer-by,  and  pollute  the  air — he  had  no  desire  to  see  the  splendid  fabric  of  constitutional 
freedom,  which  the  united  genius  of  all  parties  had  raised,  thrown  wantonly  down.  His  Jacobitism 
influenced,  not  his  head,  but  his  heart,  and  gave  a  mournful  hue  to  many  of  his  lyric  compositions 
Meanwhile  his  poems  were  passing  through  the  press.  Burns  made  a  few  emendations  of  those 
piiblished  in  the  Kilmarnock  edition,  and  he  added  others  which,  as  he  expressed  it,  he  had 
carded  and  spun,  since  he  passed  Glenbuck.  Some  rather  coarse  lines  were  softened  or  omitted 
in  the  "Twa  Dogs ;"  others,  from  a  change  of  his  personal  feelings,  were  made  in  the  '*  Vision:" 
"  Death  and  Doctor  Hornbook,"  excluded  before,  was  admitted  now:  the  "Dream"  was  retained. 
It  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  Mrs.  Stewart,  of  Stair,  and  Mrs.  Dunlop;  and  the  "Brigs  of 
Ayr,"  in  compliment  to  his  patrons  in  his  native  district,  and  the  "Address  to  Edinburgh,"  in 
honour  of  his  titled  and  distinguished  friends  in  that  metropolis,  were  printed  for  the  first  time. 
He  was  unwilling  to  alter  what  he'had  once  printed:  his  friends,  classic,  titled,  and  rustic,  found 

im  stubborn  and  unpliable,  in  matters  of  criticism;  yet  he  was  geneiiUy  of  a  complimental 
mood:  he  loaded  the  robe  of  Coila  in  the  "  Vision,"  with  more  scenes  than  it  could  well  contain, 

ithat  he  might  include  in  the  landscape,  all  the  country-seats  of  his  friends,  and  he  gave  more 
than  their  share  of  commendation  to  the  Wallaces,  out  of  respect  to  his  fi-iend  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Of 
the  critics  of  Edinburgh  he  said,  they  spun  the  thread  of  their  criticisms  so  fine  that  it  was  unfit 
for  either  warp  or  weft ;  and  of  its  scholars,  he  said,  they  were  never  satisfied  with  any  Scottish 
poet,  unless  they  could  trace  him  in  Horace.  One  morning  at  Dr.  Blair's  breakfast-table,  whec 
the  "  Holy  Fair"  was  the  subject  of  conversation,  the  reverend  critic  said,  "  Why  should 


M 


/ 


v^ 


xl  LIFE   OF   IIOBKIIT   BUKNS. 


* Moody  speel  the  holy  door 

With  tidings  of  salvation  ?' 

if  you  had  said,  with  tidings  of  damnation,  the  satire  would  have  been  the  better  and  the  bitterer." 
"  Excellent!"  exclaimed  the  poet,  "the  alteration  is  capital,  and  I  hope  you  will  honour  me  by 
allowing  me  to  say  in  a  note  at  whose  suggestion  it  was  made."     Professor  Walker,  who  tells  the 
anecdote,  adds  that  Blair  evaded,  with  equal  good  humour  and  decision,  this  not  very  polite 
request;  nor  was  this  the  only  slip  which  the  poet  made  on  this  occasion:  some  one  asked  him 
in  which  of  the   churches  of  Edinburgh  he  had  received  the  highest  gratification :  he  named  tie 
H'gh-church,  but  gave  the  preference  over  all  preachers  to  Robert  Walker,  the  colleague  and 
/  rival  in  eloquence  of  Dr.  Blair  himself,  and  that  in  a  tone  so  pointed  and  decisive  as  to  make  all 
J      at  the  table  stai-e  and  look  embarrassed.     The  poet  confessed  afterwards  that  he  never  reflected 
/        on  Ms  blunder  without  pain  and  mortification,     Blair  probably  had  this  in  his  mind,  when,  on 
ryrding  the  poem  beginning  "When  Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood,"  he  exclaimed,  "Ah!  the 
vypolitics  of  Burns  always  smell  of  the  smithy,"  meaning,  that  they  were  vulgar  and  common. 

In  April,  the  second  or  Edinburgh,  edition  was  published :  it  was  widely  purchased,  and  as 
warmly  commended.     The  country  had  been  prepared  for  it  by  the  generous  and  discriminating 
criticisms  of  Henry  Mackenzie,  published  in  that  popular  periodical,  "  The  Lounger,"  where  .he 
says,  "  Burns  possesses  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  fancy  of  a  poet ;  that  honest  pride  and  indepen- 
dence of  soul,  which  are  sometimes  the  muse's  only  dower,  break  forth  on  every  occasion,  in  his 
works."     The  praise  of  the  author  of  the  "  Man  of  Feeling"  was  not  more  felt  by  Burns,  than  it 
was  by  the  whole  island  :  the  harp  of  the  north  had  not  been  swept  for  centuries  by  a  hand  so 
forcible,  and  at  the  same  time  so  varied,  that  it  awakened  every  tone,  whether  of  joy  or  woe:  the 
language  was  that  of  rustic  life  ;  the  scenes  of  the  poems  were  the  dusty  barn,  the  clay-floored 
reeky  cottage,  and  the  furrowed   field ;    and   the   characters  were  cowherds,  ploughmen,   and 
mechanics.     The  volume  was  embellished  by  a  head  of  the  poet  from  the  hand  of  the  now  vene- 
rable Alexander  Nasmith ;  and  introduced  by  a  dedication  to  the  noblemen  and  gentlemen  of  the 
Caledonian  Hunt,  in  a  style  of  vehement  independence,  unknown  hitherto  in  the  history  of  Sub- 
scriptions.    The  whole  work,  verse,  prose,  and  portrait,  won  public  attention,  and  kept  it :   and 
though  some  critics  signified  their  displeasure  at  expressions  which  bordered  on  profanity,  and 
fat  a  license  of  language  which  they  pronounced  impure,  by  far  the  greater  number  united  their 
f  praise  to  the  all  but  general  voice ;  nay,  some  scrupled  not  to  call  him,  from  his  perfect  ease  and 
I  nature  and  vari*^ty,  the  Scottish  Shakspeare.     No  one  rejoiced  more  in  his  success  and  his  fame, 
'  than  the  matron  of  Mossgiel. 

Other  matters  than  his  poems  and  socialities  claimed  the  attention  of  Burns  in  Edinburgh.  He 
had  a  hearty  relish  for  the  joyous  genius  of  Allan  Ramsay;  he  traced  out  his  residences,  and 
rejoiced  to  think  that  while  he  stood  in  the  shop  of  his  own  bookseller,  Creech,  the  same  floor 
had  been  trod  by  the  feet  of  his  great  forerunner.  He  visited,  too,  the  lowly  grave  of  the  unfor- 
\  lunate  Robert  Fergusson ;  and  it  must  be  recorded  to  the  shame  of  the  magistrates  of  Edinburgh, 
*^that  they  allowed  him  to  erect  a  headstone  to  his  memory,  and  to  the  scandal  of  Scotland,  that  in 
such  a  memorial  he  had  not  been  anticipated.  He  seems  not  to  have  regarded  the  graves  of 
scholars  or  philosophers;  and  he  trod  the  pavements  where  the  warlike  princes  and  nobles  had 
walked  without  any  emotion.  He  loved,  however,  to  see  places  celebrated  in  Scottish  song,  and 
fields  where  battles  for  the  independence  of  his  country  had  been  stricken ;  and,  with  money  in 
his  pocket  which  his  poems  had  produced,  and  with  a  letter  from  a  witty  but  weak  man.  Lord 
Buchan,  instructing  him  to  pull  birks  on  the  Yarrow,  broom  on  the  Cowden-knowes,  and  not  to 
neglect  to  admire  the  ruins  of  Drybrugh  Abbey,  Burns  set  out  on  a  border  tour,  accompanied  by 
Robert  Ainslie,  of  Berrywell.  As  the  poet  had  talked  of  returning  to  the  plough.  Dr.  Blair 
imagined  that  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  furrowed  field,  and  wrote  him  a  handsome  farewell, 
saying  he  was  leaving  Edinburgh  with  a  character  which  had  survived  many  temptations ;  with  a 

(name  which  would  be  placed  with  the  Ramsays  and  the  Fergussons,  and  with  the  hopes  of  all, 
4hat,  in  a  second  volume,  on  which  his  fate  as  a  poet  would  very  much  depend,  he  might  rise  yet 
higher  in  n\erit  and  in  fame.     Burns,  who  received  this  communication  when  laying  his  leg  ove* 

U . . >___ . . 


BORDER  TOUR.  xii 


the  saddle  to  be  gone,  is  said  to  have  muttered,  *'  Ay,  but  a  man's  first  book  is  sometimes  like 
his  first  babe,  healthier  and  stronger  than  those  which  follow." 

On  the  6th  of  May,  1787,  Burns  reached  Berrywell :  he  recorded  of  the  laird,  that  he  was 
clear-headed,  and  of  Miss  Ainslie,  that  she  was  amiable  and  handsome — of  Dudgeon,  the  author 
of  "  The  Maid  that  tends  the  Goats,"  that  he  had  penetration  and  modesty,  and  of  the  preacher, 
Bowmaker,  that  he  was  a  man  of  strong  lungs  and  vigorous  remark.  On  crossing  the  Tweed  at 
Coldstream  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  kneeling  down,  repeated  aloud  the  two  last  verses  of  the 
"Cotter's  Saturday  Night:"  on  returning,  he  drank  tea  with  Brydone,  the  traveller,  a  man,  he 
said,  kind  and  benevolent :  he  cursed  one  Cole  as  an  English  Hottentot,  for  having  rooted  out  an 
ancient  garden  belonging  to  a  Romish  ruin ;  and  he  wrote  of  Macdowal,  of  Caverton-mill,  that 
by  his  skill  in  rearing  sheep,  he  sold  his  flocks,  ewe  and  lamb,  for  a  couple  of  guineas  each :  that 
he  washed  his  sheep  before  shearing — and  by  his  turnips  improved  sheep-husbandry;  he  added, 
that  lands  were  generally  let  at  sixteen  shillings  the  Scottish  acre;  the  farmers  rich,  and,  com- 
pared to  Ayrshire,  their  houses  magnificent.  On  his  way  to  Jedburgh  he  visited  an  old  gentleman 
in  whose  house  was  an  arm-chair,  once  the  property  of  the  author  of  *'  The  Seasons ;"  he 
reverently  examined  the  relic,  and  could  scarcely  be  persuaded  to  sit  in  it:  he  was  a  warm 
admirer  of  Thomson, 

In  Jedburgh,  Burns  found  much  to  interest  him :  the  ruins  of  a  splendid  cathedral,  and  of  a 
strong  castle — and,  what  was  still  more  attractive,  an  amiable  young  lady,  very  handsome,  with 
"  beautiful  hazel  eyes,  full  of  spirit,  sparkling  with  delicious  moisture,"  and  looks  which  betokened 
a  high  order  of  female  mind.  He  gave  her  his  portrait,  and  entered  this  remembrance  of  her 
attractions  among  his  memoranda  : — "  My  heart  is  thawed  into  melting  pleasure,  after  being  so 
long  frozen  up  in  the  Greenland  bay  of  indiflference,  amid  the  noise  and  nonsense  of  Edinburgh. 
I  am  afraid  my  bosom  has  nearly  as  much  tinder  as  ever.  Jed,  pure  be  thy  streams,  and 
hallowed  thy  sylvan  banks :  sweet  Isabella  Lindsay,  may  peace  dwell  in  thy  bosom  uninterrupted, 
except  by  the  tumultuous  throbbings  of  rapturous  love!"  With  the  freedom  of  Jedburgh,  hand- 
somely bestowed  by  the  magistrates,  in  his  pocket.  Burns  made  his  way  to  Wauchope,  the  resi- 
dence of  Mrs.  Scott,  who  had  welcomed  him  into  the  world  as  a  poet  in  verses  lively  and  graceful : 
he  found  her,  he  said,  "  a  lady  of  sense  and  taste,  and  of  a  decision  peculiar  to  female  authors." 
After  dining  with  Sir  Alexander  Don,  who,  he  said,  was  a  clever  man,  but  far  from  a  match  for 
his  divine  lady,  a  sister  of  bis  patron  Glencairn,  he  spent  an  hour  among  the  beautiful  ruins  of 
Dryburgh  Abbey ;  glanced  on  the  splendid  remains  of  Melrose ;  passed,  unconscious  of  the  future, 
over  that  ground  on  which  have  arisen  the  romantic  towers  of  Abbotsford  ;  dined  with  certain  of 
the  Souters  of  Selkirk ;  and  visited  the  old  keep  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  and  a  dozen  of  the  hills 
and  streams  celebrated  in  song.  Nor  did  he  fail  to  pay  his  respects,  after  returning  through 
Dunse,  to  Sir  James  Hall,  of  Dunglass,  and  his  lady,  and  was  much  pleased  with  the  scenery  of 
their  romantic  place.  He  was  now  joined  by  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Kerr,  and  crossing  the 
Tweed  a  second  time,  penetrated  into  England,  as  far  as  the  ancient  town  of  Newcastle,  where 
he  smiled  at  a  facetious  Northumbrian,  who  at  dinner  caused  the  beef  to  be  eaten  before  the 
broth  was  served,  in  obedience  to  an  ancient  injunction,  lest  the  hungry  Scotch  should  come 
and  snatch  it.  On  his  way  back  he  saw,  what  proved  to  be  prophetic  of  his  own  fortune — the 
roup  of  an  unfortunate  farmer's  stock:  he  took  out  his  journal,  and  wrote  with  a  troubled  brow, 
■^  Rifcil  economy,  and  decent  industry,  do  you  preserve  me  from  being  the  principal  dramatk per- 
$o}a',  in  such  a  scene  of  horror."  He  extended  his  tour  to  Carlisle,  and  from  thence  to  the  banks 
of  the  Nith,  where  he  looked  at  the  farm  of  Ellisland,  with  the  intention  of  trying  once  more  his 
'ortunc  at  the  plough,  should  poetry  and  patronage  fail  him. 

^On  his  way  through  the  West,  Burns  spent  a  few  days  with  his  mother  at  Mossgiel :  he  had 

jft  her  an  unknown  and  an  almost  banished  man :  he  returned  in  fame  and  in  sunshine,  admired 
^by  all  who  aspired  to  be  thought  tasteful  or  refined.  He  felt  oflfended  alike  with  the  patrician 
etatelincss  of  Edinburgh  and  the  plebeian  servility  of  the  husbandmen  of  Ayrshire  ;  and  dreading 
i  Ihe  influence  of  the  unlucky  star  which  had  hitherto  ruled  his  lot,  he  bought  a  pocket  Milton,  he 
Maid,  for  the  purpose  of  studying  the  intrepid  independence  and  daring  magnanimity,  and  noble 
'ixefiance  of  hardships,  exhibited  by  Satan !    In  this  mood  he  reached  Edinburgh — only  to  leave  it 


xlii  LIFE   OF   ROBERT  BURNS. 

again  on  three  hurried  excursions  into  the  Highlands.  The  route  which  he  took  and  the  senti- 
ments which  the  scenes  awakened,  are  but  faintly  intimated  in  the  memoranda  which  he  made. 
His  first  journey  seems  to  have  been  performed  in  ill-humour ;  at  Stirling,  his  Jacobitism,  provoked 
at  seeing  the  ruined  palace  of  the  Stuarts,  broke  out  in  some  unloyal  lines  which  he  had  the 
indiscretion  to  write  with  a  diamond  on  the  window  of  a  public  inn.  At  Carron,  where  he  was 
refused  a  sight  of  the  magnificent  foundry,  he  avenged  himself  in  epigram.  At  Invtrary  he 
resented  some  real  or  imaginary  neglect  on  the  part  of  his  Grace  of  Argyll,  by  a  stinging  lampoon ; 
nor  can  he  be  said  to  have  fairly  regained  his  serenity  of  temper,  till  he  danced  his  wrath  away 
with  some  Highland  ladies  at  Dumbarton. 

His  second  excursion  was  made  in  the  company  of  Dr.  Adair,  of  Harrowgate :  the  reluctant 
doors  of  Carron  foundry  were  opened  to  him,  and  he  expressed  his  wonder  at  the  blazing  furnaces 
and  broiling  labours  of  the  place ;  he  removed  the  disloyal  lines  from  the  window  of  the  inn  at 
Stirling,  and  he  paid  a  two  days'  visit  to  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  a  distinguished  scholar,  and  dis- 
cussed with  him  future  topics  for  the  muse.     "I  have  been  in  the  company  of  many  men  of 
^genius,"  said  llamsay  afterwards  to  Currie,  "some  of  them  poets,  but  never  witnessevl  such 
:^  "flashes  of  intellectual  brightness  as  from  him — the  impulse  of  the  moment,  sparks  of  celestial 
llfire."     From  the  Forth  he  went  to  the  Devon,  in  the  county  of  Clackmannan,  whei*e,  for  the  first 
*  time,  he  saw  the  beautiful  Charlotte  Hamilton,  the  sister  of  his  friend  Gavin  Hamilton,  of  Mauch- 
line.     "She  is  not  only  beautiful,"  he  thus  writes  to  her  brother,   **but  lovely:    her  form  is 
elegant,  her  features  not  regular,  but  they  have  the  smile  of  sweetness,  and  the  settled  compla- 
cency of  good  nature  in  the  highest  degree.    Her  eyes  are  fascinating ;  at  once  expressive  of  good 
sense,  tenderness  and  a  noble  mind.     After  the  exercise  of  our  riding  to  the  Falls,  Charlotte  was 
exactly  Dr.  Donne's  mistress:  — 

"  Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought. 
That  one  would  almost  say  her  body  thought." 

Accompanied  by  this  charming  dame,  he  visited  an  old  lady,  Mrs.  Bruce,  of  Clackmannan,  who, 
in  the  belief  that  she  had  the  blood  of  the  royal  Bruce  in  her  veins,  received  the  poet  with  some- 
thing of  princely  state,  and,  half  in  jest,  conferred  the  honour  of  knighthood  upon  him,  with  her 
ancestor's  sword,  saying,  in  true  Jacobitical  mood,  that  she  had  a  better  right  to  do  that  than 
some  folk  had !  In  the  same  pleasing  company  he  visited  the  famous  cataract  on  the  Devon, 
called  the  Cauldron  Linn,  and  the  Rumbling  bridge,  a  single  arch  thrown,  it  is  said  by  the  devil, 
over  the  Devon,  at  the  height  of  a  hundred  feet  in  the  air.  It  was  the  complaint  of  his  compa- 
nions that  Burns  exhibited  no  raptures,  and  poured  out  no  unpremeditated  verses  at  such  magni- 
ficent scenes.  But  he  did  not  like  to  be  tutored  or  prompted:  "Look,  look!"  exclaimed  some 
one,  as  Carron  foundry  belched  forth  flames — "look,  Burns,  look!  good  heavens,  what  a  grand 
sight! — look  I"  "I  would  not  look — look,  sir,  at  your  bidding,"  said  the  bard,  turning  away, 
"  were  it  into  the  mouth  of  hell !"  When  he  visited,  at  a  future  time,  the  romantic  Linn  of  Cree- 
hope,  in  Nithsdale,  he  looked  silently  at  its  wonders,  and  showed  none  of  the  hoped-for  rapture. 
"You  do  not  admire  it,  I  fear,"  said  a  gentleman  who  accompanied  him:  "I  could  not  admire  it 
more,  sir,"  replied  Burns,  "  if  He  who  made  it  were  to  desire  me  to  do  it."  There  are  other  reasons 
for  the  silence  of  Burns  amid  the  scenes  of  the  Devon :  he  was  charmed  into  love  by  the  sense 
and  the  beauty  of  Charlotte  Hamilton,  and  rendered  her  homage  in  that  sweet  song,  "  The  Banks 
of  the  Devon,"  and  in  a  dozen  letters  written  with  more  than  his  usual  care,  elegance,  and 
tenderness.  But  the  lady  was  neither  to  be  won  by  verse  nor  by  prose :  she  afterwards  gave 
her  hand  to  Adair,  the  poet's  companion,  and,  what  was  less  meritorious,  threw  his  letters  into 
the  fire. 

The  third  and  last  tour  into  the  North  was  in  company  of  Nicol  of  the  High-School  of  Edin- 
burgh: on  the  fields  of  Bannockburn  and  Falkirk — places  of  triumph  and  of  woe  to  Scotland,  he 
gave  way  to  patriotic  impulses,  and  in  these  words  he  recorded  them: — "Stirling,  August  26, 
1787  :  this  morning  I  knelt  at  tlie  tomb  of  Sir  John  the  Graham,  the  gallant  friend  of  the  immortal 
Wallace ;  and  two  hours  ago  I  said  a  fervent  prayer  for  old  Caledonia,  over  the  hole  in  a  whin? 


HIGHLAND   TOUK.  xliil 


»tone  where  Robert  the  Bruce  fixed  his  royal  standard  on  the  banks  of  Bannockbum."  He  then 
proceeded  northward  by  Ochtertyre,  the  water  of  Earn,  the  vale  of  Glen  Almond,  and  the  tradi 
tionary  grave  of  Ossian.  He  looked  in  at  princely  Taymouth ;  mused  an  hour  or  two  among  the 
Birks  of  Aberfeldy ;  gazed  from  Birnam  top ;  paused  amid  the  wild  grandeur  of  the  pass  of 
Killiecrankie,  at  the  stone  which  marks  the  spot  where  a  second  patriot  Graham  fell,  and  spent  a 
day  at  Blair,  where  he  experienced  the  graceful  kindness  ^  ^\e  Duke  of  Athol,  and  in  a  strain 
truly  elegant,  petitioned  him,  in  the  name  of  Bruar  Water,  to  hide  the  utter  nakedness  of  its 
otherwise  picturesque  banks,  with  plantations  of  birch  and  oak.  Quitting  Blair  he  followed  tJie 
course  of  the  Spey,  and  passing,  as  he  told  his  brother,  through  a  wild  country,  among  cliffs  gray 
with  eternal  snows,  and  glens  gloomy  and  savage,  reached  Findhorn  in  mist  and  darkness ;  visited 
Castle  Cawdor,  where  Macbeth  murdered  Duncan ;  hastened  through  Inverness  to  Urquhart 
Castle,  and  the  7alls  of  Fyers,  and  turned  southward  to  Kilravock,  over  the  fatal  moor  of  Cullo- 
den.  He  admired  the  ladies  of  that  classic  region  for  their  snooded  ringlets,  simple  elegance  of 
dress,  and  expressive  eyes :  in  Mrs.  Rose,  of  Kilravock  Castle,  he  found  that  matronly  grace  and 
dignity  which  he  owned  he  loved ;  and  in  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Gordon  a  renewal  of  that  more 
than  kindness  with  which  they  had  welcomed  him  in  Edinburgh.  But  while  he  admired  the 
palace  of  Fochabers,  and  was  charmed  by  the  condescensions  of  the  noble  proprietors,  he  forgot 
that  he  had  left  a  companion  at  the  inn,  too  proud  and  captious  to  be  pleased  at  favours  showered 
on  others :  he  hastened  back  to  the  inn  with  an  invitation  and  an  apology ;  he  found  the  fiery 
pedant  in  a  foaming  rage,  striding  up  and  down  the  street,  cursing  in  Scotch  and  Latin  the  loitering 
postilions  for  not  yoking  the  horses,  and  hurrying  him  away.  All  apology  and  explanation  was 
in  vain,  and  Burns,  with  a  vexation  which  he  sought  not  to  conceal,  took  his  seat  silently  beside 
the  irascible  pedagogue,  and  returned  to  the  South  by  Broughty  Castle,  the  banks  of  Endermay 
and  Queensferry.  He  parted  with  the  Highlands  in  a  kindly  mood,  and  loved  to  recal  the  scenes 
and  the  people,  both  in  conversation  and  in  song. 

On  his  return  to  Edinburgh  he  had  to  bide  the  time  of  his  bookseller  and  the  public :  the 
impression  of  his  poems,  extending  to  two  thousand  eight  hundred  copies,  was  sold  widely  :  much 
of  the  money  had  to  come  from  a  distance,  and   Burns  lingered  about  the  northern  metropolis, 
expecting   a  settlement  with  Creech,  and  with  the  hope  that  those  who  dispensed  his  country's 
patronage  might  remember  one  who  then,  as  now,  was  reckoned  an  ornament  to  the  land.     But 
Creech,  a  parsimonious  man,  was  slow  in  his  payments ;  the  patronage  of  the  country  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  sink  of  politics,  and  though  noblemen  smiled,  and  ladies  of  rank  nodded  their 
jewelled  heads  in  approbation  of  every  new  song  he  sung  and  every  witty  sally  he  uttered,  they 
reckoned  any  further  notice  or  care  superfluous :  the  poet,  an  obsei'vant  man,  saw  all  this ;  but  hope 
was  the  cordial  of  his  heart,  he  said,  and  he  hoped  and  lingered  on.     Too  active  a  genius  to  remain 
idle,  he  addressed  himself  to  the  twofold  business  of  love  and  verse.     Repulsed  by  the  stately 
i  Beauty  of  the  Devon,  he  sought  consolation  in  the  society  of  one,  as  fair,  and  infinitely  more 
witty ;  and  as  an  accident  had  for  a  time  deprived  him  of  the  use  of  one  of  his  legs,  he  gave 
wings  to  hours  of  pain,  by  writing  a  series  of  letters  to  this  Edinburgh  enchantress,  in  which  he 
signed  himself  Sylvander,  and  addressed  her  under  the  name  of  Clarinda.     In  these  compositions, 
Which  no  one  can  regard  as  serious,  and  which  James  Grahame  the  poet  called  "  a  romance  of 
;real  Platonic  affection,"  amid  much  affectation  both  of  language  and  sentiment,  and  a  desire  to  say 
||ne  and  startling  things,  we  can  see  the  proud  heart  of  the  poet  throbbing  in  the  dread  of  being 
neglected  or  forgotten  by  his  country.     The  love  which  he  offers  up  at  the  altar  of  wit  and  beauty, 
Bceras  assumed  and  put  on,  for  its  rapture  is  artificial,  and  its  brilliancy  that  of  an  icicle :  no 
woman  was  ever  wooed  and  won  in  that  Malvolio  way;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  Mrs.  M'Lehosa 
i     felt  as  much  offence  as  pleasure  at  this  boisterous  display  of  regard.     In  aftertimes  he  loved  to 
i     remember  her  : — when  wine  circulated,  Mrs.  Mac  was  his  favourite  toast. 

'  During  this  season  he  began  his  lyric  contributions  to  the  ^lusical  Museum  of  Johnson,  a  work 

which,  amid  many  imperfections  of  taste  and  arrangement,  contains  more  of  the  true  old  musio 
»nd  genuine  old  songs  of  Scotland,  than  any  other  collection  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  Burns 
gathered  oral  airs,  and  fitted  them  with  words  of  mirth  or  of  woe,  of  tenderness  or  of  humour, 
with  unexampled  readiness  and  felicity  ;  he  eked  o  it  old  fragments  and  sobered  down  licentiooa 


s/ 


^^ 


/, 


xliv  LIFE   OF   EGBERT   BURNS. 

Btrains  so  much  in  the  olden  spirit  and  feeling,  that  the  new  cannot  be  distinguished  froi  th« 
ancient ;  nay,  he  inserted  lines  and  half  lines,  with  such  skill  and  nicety,  that  antiquarian,  are 
perplexed  to  settle  which  is  genuine  or  which  is  simulated.  Yet  with  all  this  he  abated  noi  of 
the  natural  mirth  or  the  racy  humour  of  the  lyric  muse  of  Scotland :  he  did  not  like  her  the  ega 
because  she  walked  like  some  of  the  maidens  of  her  strains,  high-kilted  at  times,  and  spoke  >  ith 
the  freedom  of  innocence.  In  these  communications  we  observe  how  little  his  border-jaunt  among 
the  fountains  of  ancient  song  contributed  either  of  sentiment  or  allusion,  to  his  lyrics  ;  and  how 
deeply  his  strains,  whether  of  pity  or  of  merriment,  were  coloured  by  what  he  had  seen,  and 
heard,  and  felt  in  the  Highlands.  In  truth,  all  that  lay  beyond  the  Forth  was  an  undiscovered 
land  to  him ;  while  the  lowland  districts  were  not  only  familiar  to  his  mind  and  eye,  but  all  their 
more  romantic  vales  and  hills  and  streams  were  already  musical  in  songs  of  such  excellence  as 
yfduced  him  to  dread  failure  rather  than  hope  triumph.  Moreover,  the  Highlands  teemed  with 
/  jacobitical  feelings,  and  scenes  hallowed  by  the  blood  or  the  sufferings  of  men  heroic,  and  perhaps 
misguided ;  and  the  poet,  willingly  yielding  to  an  impulse  which  was  truly  romantic,  and  believed 
by  thousands  to  be  loyal,  penned  his  songs  on  Drumossie,  and  Killiecrankie,  as  the  spirit  of  sorrow 
or  of  bitterness  prevailed.  Though  accompanied,  during  his  northern  excursions,  by  friends 
whose  socialities  and  conversation  forbade  deep  thought,  or  even  serious  remark,  it  will  be  seen 
by  those  who  read  his  lyrics  with  care,  that  his  wreath  is  indebted  for  some  of  its  fairest  flowers 
to  the  Highlands. 

The  second  winter  of  the  poet's  abode  in  Edinburgh  had  now  arrived :  it  opened,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  with  less  rapturous  welcomes  and  with  more  of  frosty  civility  than  the  first.  It 
/must  be  confessed,  that  indulgence  in  prolonged  socialities,  and  in  company  which,  though  clever, 
f  could  not  be  called  select,  contributed  to  this ;  nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that  his  love  for  the 
sweeter  part  of  creation  was  now  and  then  carried  beyond  the  limits  of  poetic  respect,  and  the 
delicacies  of  courtesy  ;  tending  to  estrange  the  austere  and  to  lessen  the  admiration  at  first 
common  to  all.  Other  causes  may  be  assigned  for  this  wane  of  popularity :  he  took  no  care  to 
conceal  his  contempt  for  all  who  depended  on  mere  scholarship  for  eminence,  and  he  had  a  perilous 
knack  in  sketching  with  a  sarcastic  hand  the  characters  of  the  learned  and  the  grave.  Some 
indeed  of  the  high  literati  of  the  north — Home,  the  author  of  Douglas,  was  one  of  them — spoke 
of  the  poet  as  a  chance  or  an  accident:  and  though  they  admitted  that  he  was  a  poet,  yet 
he  was  not  one  of  settled  grandeur  of  soul,  brightened  by  study.  Burns  was  probably  aware 
of  this ;  he  takes  occasion  in  some  of  his  letters  to  suggest,  that  the  hour  may  be  at  hand 
when  he  shall  be  accounted  by  scholars  as  a  meteor^  rather  than  a  fixed  light,  and  to  suspect 
that  the  praise  bestowed  on  his  genius  was  partly  owing  to  the  humility  of  his  condition.  From 
his  lingering  so  long  about  Edinburgh,  the  nobility  began  to  dread  a  second  volume  by  sub- 
scription, tlie  learned  to  regard  him  as  a  fierce  Theban,  who  resolved  to  carry  all  the  out- 
works to  the  temple  of  Fame  without  the  labour  of  making  regular  approaches ;  while  a  third 
J/pSirty,  and  not  the  least  numerous,  looked  on  him  witl\^distrust,  as  one  who  hovered  between 

,  I  /  Jacobite  and  Jacobin ;  who  disliked  the  loyal-minded,  and  loved  to  lampoon  the  reigning  family. 

^/l  Besides,  the  marvel  of-  the  inspired  ploughman  had  begun  to  subside ;  the  bright  gloss  of 
novelty  was  worn  off,  and  his  fault  lay  in  his  unwillingness  to  see  that  he  had  made  all  iha 
eport  which  the  Philistines  expected,  and  was  required  to  make  room  for  some  "  salvage"  of 
the  season,  to  paw.  and  roar,  and  shake  the  mane.  The  doors  of  the  titled,  which  at  first  opened 
Bpontaneous,  like  those  in  Milton's  heaven,  were  now  unclosed  for  him  with  a  tardy  courtesy :  he 
•?as  received  with  measured  stateliness,  and  seldom  requested  to  repeat  his  visit.  Of  this 
charged  aspect  of  things  he  complained  to  a  friend:  but  his  real  sorrows  were  mixed  with  those 
of  the  fancy : — he  told  Mrs.  Dunlop  with  what  pangs  of  heart  he  was  compelled  to  take  shelter  in 
a  cornerj  lest  the  rattling  equipage  of  some  gaping  blockhead  should  mangle  him  in  the  mire. 
In  this  land  of  titles  and  wealth  such  querulous  sensibilities  must  have  been  frequently  offended. 
Burns,  who  had  talked  lightly  hitherto  of  resuming  the  plough,  began  now  to  think  seriously 
about  it,  for  he  saw  it  must  come  to  that  at  last.  Miller,  of  Dalswinton,  a  gentleman  of  scientific 
acquirements,  and  who  has  the  merit  of  applying  the  impulse  of  steam  to  navigation,  had  offered 
he  poet  the  choice  of  his  farms,  on  a  fair  estate  which  he  had  purchased  on  the  Nith :  aided  by 


HIS   MARRIAGE.  xiv 


"1 


n 


jJwestland  farmer,  he  selected  Ellisland,  a  beautiful  spot,  fit  alike  for  the  steps  of  ploughman  or 
/oet.  On  intimating  this  to  the  magnates  of  Edinburgh,  no  one  lamented  that  a  genius  so  bright 
And  original  should  be  driven  to  win  his  bread  with  the  sweat  of  his  brow:  no  one,  with  an 
/indignant  eye,  ventured  to  tell  those  to  whom  the  patronage  of  this  magnificent  empire  was  con- 
•  fided,  that  they  were  misusing  the  sacred  trust,  and  that  posterity  would  curse  them  for  their 
coldness  or  neglect :  neither  did  any  of  the  rich  nobles,  whose  tables  he  had  adorned  by  his  wit, 
offer  to  enable  him  to  toil  free  of  rent,  in  a  land  of  which  he  was  to  be  a  permanent  ornament; — 
all  were  silent — all  were  cold — the  Earl  of  Glencairn  alone,  aided  by  Alexander  Wood,  a  gentle- 
man who  merits  praise  oftener  than  he  is  named,  did  the  little  that  was  done  or  atterjpted  to  he 
done  for  him:  nor  was  that  little  done  on  the  peer's  part  without  solicitation: — "I  wish  to  go 
into  the  excise  ;"  thus  he  wrote  to  Glencairn ;  "  and  I  am  told  your  lordship's  interest  will  easily 
^procure  me  the  grant  from  the  commissioners :  and  your  lordship's  patronage  and  goodness, 
which  have  already  rescued  me  from  obscurity,  wretchedness,  and  exile,  emboldens  me  to  ask 

at  interest.  You  have  likewise  put  it  in  my  power  to  save  the  little  tie  of  home  that  sheltered 
n  aged  mother,  two  brothers,  and  three  sisters  from  destruction.  I  am  ill  qualified  to  dog  the 
heels  of  greatness  with  the  impertinence  of  solicitation,  and  tremble  nearly  as  much  at  the  thought 
of  the  cold  promise  as  the  cold  denial."  The  farm  and  the  excise  exhibit  the  poet's  humble 
scheme  of  life :  the  money  of  the  one,  he  thought,  would  support  the  toil  of  the  other,  and  in  tho 
fortunate  management  of  both,  he  looked  for  the  rough  abundance,  if  not  the  elegancies  suitable 
to  a  poet's  condition. 

"While  Scotland  was  disgraced  by  sordidly  allowing  her  brightest  genius  to  descend  to  the 
plough  and  the  excise,  the  poet  hastened  his  departure  from  a  city  which  had  witnessed  both  hi3 
triumph  and  his  shame :  he  bade  farewell  in  a  few  well-chosen  words  to  such  of  the  classic  literati 
— the  Blairs,  the  Stewarts,  the  Mackenzies,  and  the  Tytlers — as  had  welcomed  the  rustic  bard 
and  continued  to  countenance  him ;  while  in  softer  accents  he  bade  adieu  to  the  Clarindas  and 
Chlorises  of  whose  charms  he  had  sung,  and,  having  wrung  a  settlement  from  Creech,  he  turned 
his  steps  towards  Mossgiel  and  Mauchline.  He  had  several  reasons,  and  all  serious  ones,  for 
taking  Ayrshire  in  his  way  to  the  Nith :  he  desired  to  see  his  mother,  his  brothers  and  sisters, 
who  had  partaken  of  his  success,  and  were  now  raised  from  pining  penury  to  comparative  aflSuence : 
he  desired  to  see  those  who  had  aided  him  in  his  early  struggles  into  the  upper  air — perhaps 
those,  too,  who  had  looked  coldly  on,  and  smiled  at  his  outward  aspirations  after  fame  or  distinc- 
tion ;  but  more  than  all,  he  desired  to  see  one  whom  he  once  and  still  dearly  loved,  who  had  been 
a  sufferer  for  his  sake,  and  whom  he  proposed  to  make  mistress  of  his  fireside  and  the  sharer  of 
his  fortunes.  Even  while  whispering  of  love  to  Charlotte  Hamilton,  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon, 
or  sighing  out  the  affected  sentimentalities  of  platonic  or  pastoral  love  in  the  ear  of  Clarinda,  hig 
thoughts  wandered  to  her  whom  he  had  left  bleaching  her  webs  among  the  daisies  on  Mauchlind 
braes — she  had  still  his  heart,  and  in  spite  of  her  own  and  her  father's  disclamation,  she  was  hiJ 
wife.  It  was  one  of  the  delusions  of  this  great  poet,  as  well  as  of  those  good  people,  the  Armoursl 
that  the  marriage  had  been  dissolved  by  the  destruction  of  the  marriage-lines,  and  that  Rober| 
Burns  and  Jean  Armour  were  as  single  as  though  they  had  neither  vowed  nor  written  themselves 
man  and  wife.     Be  that  as  it  may,  the  time  was  come  when  all  scruples  and  obstacles  were  to  be 

(removed  which  stood  in  the  way  of  their  union :  their  hands  were  united  by  Gavin  Hamilton, 
according  to  law,  in  April,  1788;  and  even  the  Reverend  Mr.  Auld,  so  mercilessly  lampooned, 
smiled  forgivingly  as  the  poet  satisfied  a  church  wisely  scrupulous  regarding  the  sacrei  ceremony 
of  marriage. 

Though  Jean  Armour  was  but  a  country  lass  of  humble  degree,  she  had  sense  and  intelligence; 
tnd  personal  charms  sufficient  not  only  to  win  and  fix  the  affections  of  the  poet,  but  to  sancti 
the  praise  which  he  showered  on  her  in  song.  In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  he  thus  describes  her"^ 
"  The  most  placid  good  nature  and  sweetness  of  disposition,  a  warm  heart,  gratefully  devoted 
with  all  its  powers  to  love  me ;  vigorous  health  and  sprightly  cheerfulness,  set  off  to  the  best 
advantage  by  a  more  than  commonly  handsome  figure :  these  I  think  in  a  woman  may  make  a 
SEPod  wife,  though  she  should  never  have  read  a  page  but  the  Scriptures,  nor  have  danced  in  a 


;e,y 

1 


i\/ 


xlvi  LIFE   OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 

brighter  assembly  than  a  penny-pay  wedding."  To  the  accomplished  Margaret  Chalmers,  oi 
Edinburgh,  he  adds,  to  complete  the  picture,  "I  have  got  the  handsomest  figure,  the  sweetest 
tem.per,  the  soundest  constitution,  and  kindest  heart  in  the  country :  a  certain  late  publication 
of  Scots'  poems  she  has  perused  very  devoutly,  and  all  the  ballads  in  the  land,  as  she  has  the 
finest  woodnote  wild  you  ever  heard,"  With  his  young  wife,  a  punch  bowl  of  Scottish  marble,  and 
an  eight-day  clock,  both  presents  from  Mr.  Armour,  mow  reconciled  to  his  eminent  son-in-law, 
with  a  new  plough,  and  a  beautiful  heifer,  given  by  Mrs.  Dunlop,  with  about  four  hundred  pounds 
in  his  pocket,  a  resolution  to  toil,  and  a  hope  of  success.  Burns  made  his  appearance  on  the  banki 
of  the  Nith,  and  set  up  his  stafi^  at  Ellisland.  This  farm,  now  a  classic  spot,  is  about  six  miles 
up  the  river  from  Dumfries ;  it  extends  to  upwards  of  a  hundred  acres :  the  soil  is  kindly ;  the 
holmland  portion  of  it  loamy  and  rich,  and  it  has  at  command  fine  walks  on  the  river  side,  and 
views  of  the  Friar's  Carse,  Cowehill,  and  Dalswinton.  For  a  while  the  poet  had  to  hide  his  head 
in  a  smoky  hovel ;  till  a  house  to  his  fancy,  and  offices  for  his  cattle  and  his  crops  were  built,  his 
accommodation  was  sufficiently  humble ;  and  his  mind  taking  its  hue  from  his  situation,  infused 
a  bitterness  into  the  letters  in  which  he  first  made  known  to  his  western  friends  that  he  had  fixed 
his  abode  in  Nithsdale.  '^  am  here,"  said  he,  "  at  the  very  elbow  of  existence :  the  only  things 
to  be  found  in  perfection  m  this  country  are  stupidity  and  canting ;  prose  they  only  know  in  graces 
and  prayers,  and  the  value  of  these  they  estimate  as  they  do  their  plaiden-webs,  by  the  ell :  as 
for  the  muses,  they  have  as  much  an  idea  of  a  rhinoceros  as  of  a  poet.'V/"This  is  an  undiscovered 
clime,"  he  at  another  period  exclaims,  "  it  is  unknown  to  poetry,  and  prose  never  looked  on  it 

*^ave  in  drink.     I  sit  by  the  fire,  and  listen  to  the  hum  of  the  spinning-wheel :  I  hear,  but  cannot 
/see  it,  for  it  is  hidden  in  the  smoke  which  eddies  round  and  round  me  before  it  seeks  to  escape  by 

^  window  and  door.     I  have  no  converse  but  with  the  ignorance  which  encloses  me :  no  kenned  face 
biit  that  of  my  old  mare,  Jenny  Geddes — my  life  is  dwindled  down  to  mere  existence." 

When  the  poet's  new  house  was  built  and  plenished,  and  the  atmosphere  of  his  mind  began  to 
clear,  he  found  the  land  to  be  fruitful,  and  its  people  intelligent  and  wise.  In  Riddel,  of  Friar's 
Carse,  he  found  a  scholar  and  antiquarian ;  in  Miller,  of  Dalswinton,  a  man  conversant  with 
science  as  well  as  with  the  world;  in  M'Murdo,  of  Drumlanrig,  a  generous  and  accomplished 
gentleman  ;  and  in  John  Syme,  of  Ryedale,  a  man  much  after  his  own  heart,  and  a  lover  of  the 
wit  and  socialities  of  polished  life.  Of  these  gentlemen  lliddQi,  who  was  his  neighbour,  was  the 
favourite :  a  door  was  made  in  the  march-fence  which  serrated  Ellisland  from  Friar's  Carse, 
that  the  poet  might  indulge  in  the  retirement  of  the  Carse  hermitage,  a  Ijttle  lodge  in  the  wood, 
as  romantic  as  it  was  beautiful,  while  a  pathway  was  cut  through  the  dwarf  oaks  and  birches 
which  fringed  the  river  bank,  to  enable  the  poet  to  saunter  and  muse  without  let  or  interruption. 
This  attention  was  rewarded  by  an  inscription  for  the  hermitage,  written  with  elegance  as  well  as 
feeling,  and  which  was  the  first  fruits  of  his  fancy  in  this  unpoetic  land.  In  a  happier  strain  he 
remembered  Matthew  Henderson :  this  is  one  of  the  sweetest  as  well  as  happiest  of  his  poetic 
compositions.  He  heard  of  his  friend's  death,  and  called  on  nature  animate  and  inanimate, 
to  lament  the  loss  of  one  who  held  the  patent  of  his  honours  from  God  alone,  and  who  loved  all 
that  was  pure  and  lovely  and  good.  "  The  Whistle"  is  another  of  his  Ellisland  compositions:  the 
contest  which  he  has  recorded  with  such  spirit  and  humour  took  place  almost  at  his  door:  the 
heroes  were  Fergusson,  of  Craigdarroch,  Sir  Robert  Laurie,  of  Maxwelltown,  and  Riddel,  of 
the  Friar's  Carse :  the  poet  was  present,  and  drank  bottle  and  bottle  about  with  the  best,  and 
when  all  was  done  he  seemed  much  disposed,  as  an  old  servant  at  Friar's  Carse  remembered,  to 
take  up  the  victbr. 

Burns  had  become  fully  reconciled  to  Nithsdale,  and  was  on  the  most  ijitimate  terms  with  the 
muse  when  he  produced  Tam  O'Shanter,  the  crowning  glory  of  all  his  poems.  For  this  marvellous 
tale  we  are  indebted  to  something  like  accident:  Francis  Grose,  the  antiquary,  happened  to  visit 
Friar's  Carse,  and  as  he  loved  wine  and  wit,  the  total  want  of  imagination  was  nc  hinderance  to 
his  friendly  intercourse  with  the  poet :  "  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk"  was  mentioned,  and  Grose 
eaid  he  would  include  it  in  his  illustrations  of  the  antiquities  of  Scotland,  if  the  bard  of  the 
Doon  would  write  a  poem  to  accompany  it.  Burns  consented,  and  before  he  left  the  table,  the 
various  traditions  which  belonged  to  the  ruin  were  passing  through  his  mind.     One  of  these  vr^t 


ELLISLAND— TAM   O'SHANTER.  xlvii 


of  a  farmer,  -who,  on  a  night  wild  with  wind  and  rain,  on  passing  the  old  kirk  was  startled  ly  a 
-light  glimmering  inside  the  walls :  on  drawing  near  he  saw  a  caldron  hung  over  a  fire,  in  which 
the  heads  and  limbs  of  children  were  simmering:  there  was  neither  witch  nor  fiend  to  guard  it. 
BO  he  unhooked  the  caldron,  turned  out  the  contents,  and  carried  it  home  as  a  ttophy.  A  second 
tradition  was  of  a  man  of  Kyle,  who,  having  been  on  a  market  night  detained  late  in  Ayr,  on 
crossing  the  old  bridge  of  Doon,  on  his  way  home,  saw  a  light  streaming  through  the  gothic  win- 
dow of  Alloway  kirk,  and  on  riding  near,  beheld  a  batch  of  the  district  witches  dancing  merrilv 
round  their  master,  the  devil,  who  kept  them  "louping  and  flinging"  to  the  sound  of  a  bagpipe 
He  knew  several  of  the  old  crones,  and  smiled  at  their  gambols,  for  they  were  dancing  in  thcii 
smocks  :  but  one  of  them,  and  she  happened  to  be  young  and  rosy,  had  on  a  smock  shorter  than 
those  of  her  companions  by  two  spans  at  least,  which  so  moved  the  farmer  that  he  exclaimed, 
''  Weel  luppan,  Maggie  wi'  the  short  sark !"  Satan  stopped  his  music,  the  light  was  extinguished, 
and  out  rushed  the  hags  after  the  farmer,  who  made  at  the  gallop  for  the  bridge  of  Doon,  knowing 
that  they  could  not  cross  a  stream :  he  escaped ;  but  Maggie,  who  was  foremost,  seized  his  horse's 
tail  at  the  middle  of  the  bridge,  and  pulled  it  off  in  her  efforts  to  stay  him. 

This  poem  was  the  work  of  a  single  day :  Burns  walked  out  to  his  favourite  musing  path, 
which  runs  towards  the  old  tower  of  the  Isle,  along  Nithside,  and  was  observed  to  walk  hastily 
and  mutter  as  he  went.  His  wife  knew  by  these  signs  that  he  was  engaged  in  composition,  and 
watched  him  from  the  window ;  at  last  wearying,  and  moreover  wondering  at  the  unusual  length 
of  his  meditations,  she  took  her  children  with  her  and  went  to  meet  him ;  but  as  he  seemed  not 
to  see  her,  she  stept  aside  among  the  broom  to  allow  him  to  pass,  which  he  did  with  a  flushed 
brow  and  dropping  eyes,  reciting  these  lines  aloud : — 

"  Now  Tam  !    O,  Tarn  !   had  thae  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens, 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen  ! 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue  hair,    ' 
1  wad  hae  gien  them  aff  my  hurdles, 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  bardies  !" 


i^e  eml 


Te  embellisljed  this  wild  tradition  from  fact  as  well  as  from  fancy :  along  the  road  which  Tam 
came  on  that  eventful  night  his  memory  supplied  circumstances  which  prepared  him  for  the 
strange  sight  at  the  kirk  of  Alloway.  A  poor  chapman  had  perished,  some  winters  before,  in  the 
snow;  a  murdered  child  had  been  found  by  some  early  hunters ;  a  tippling  farmer  had  fallen 
from  his  horse  at  the  expense  of  his  neck,  beside  a  "  meikle  stane ;"  and  a  melancholy  old  woman 
had  hanged  herself  at  the  bush  aboon  the  well,  as  the  poem  relates :  all  these  matters  the  poet 
pressed  into  the  service  of  the  muse,  and  used  them  with  a  skill  which  adorns  rather  than 
oppresses  the  legend.  A  pert  lawyer  from  Dumfries  objected  to  the  language  as  obscure : 
" Obscure,  sir!"  said  Burns ;  "you  know  not  the  language  of  that  great  master  of  your  own  art 
— the  devil.  If  you  had  a  witch  for  your  client  you  would  not  be  able  to  manage  her  defence !"' 
He  wrote  few  poems  after  his  marriage,  but  he  composed  many  songs  :  the  sweet  voice  of  Mrs. 
Burns  rnd  the  craving  of  Johnson's  Museum  will  in  some  measure  account  for  the  number,  but 
not  for  tneir  variety,  which  is  truly  wonderful.  In  the  history  of  that  mournful  strain,  "Mary 
ir.  Hsaven,"  we  read  the  story  of  many  of  his  lyrics,  for  they  generally  sprang  from  his  personal 
feelings :  no  poet  has  put  more  of  himself  into  his  poetry  tlian  Burns.  "  Robert,  though  ill  of  a 
cold,"  said  his  wife,  "had  been  busy  all  day — a  day  of  September,  1789,  with  the  shearers  in 
the  field,  and  as  he  had  got  most  of  the  corn  into  the  stack-yard,  was  in  good  spirits ;  but  when 
twilight  came  he  grew  sad  about  something,  and  could  not  rest :  he  wandered  first  up  the  water- 
Bide,  and  then  went  into  the  stack-yard  :  I  followed,  and  begged  him  to  come  into  the  house,  as 
he  was  ill,  and  the  air  was  sharp  and  cold.  He  said,  'Ay,  ay,'  but  did  not  come:  he  threw 
himself  down  en  some  loose  sheaves,  and  lay  looking  at  the  sky,  and  particularly  at  a  large, 
bright  star,  which  shone  like  another  moon.  At  last,  but  that  was  long  after  I  had  left  him,  he 
c»me  home-'  the  song  was  already  composed."     To  the  memory  of  Mary  Campbell  he  dedicated 


.iJ 


xlviii  LIFE   OF  EGBERT   BURNS 

that  touching  ode  ;  and  he  thus  intimates  the  continuance  of  his  early  affection  for  "The  fair 
haired  lass  of  the  west,"  in  a  letter  of  that  time  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  "  If  there  is  another  life,  it 
must  be  only  for  the  just,  the  benevolent,  the  amiable,  and  the  humane.  What  a  flattering  idea, 
then,  is  a  world  to  come !  There  shall  I,  with  speechless  agony  of  rapture,  again  recognise  my 
lost,  my  ever  dear  Mary,  whose  bosom  was  fraught  with  truth,  honour,  constancy,  and  love." 
These  melancholy  words  gave  way  in  their  turn  to  others  of  a  nature  lively  and  humorous :  *'  Tarn 
Glen,"  in  which  the  thoughts  flow  as  freely  as  the  waters  of  the  Nith,  on  whose  banks  he  wrote 
it;  "  Findlay,"  with  its  quiet  vein  of  sly  simplicity;  "Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'  maut,"  the  first 
of  social,  and  "  She's  fair  and  fause,"  the  first  of  sarcastic  songs,  with  "The  deil's  awa  wi'  the 
Exciseman,"  are  all  productions  of  this  period — a  period  which  had  besides  its  own  fears  and  its 
own  forebodings. 

For  a  while  Burns  seemed  to  prosper  in  his  farm  :  he  held  the  plough  with  his  own  hand,  he 
guided  the  harrows,  he  distributed  the  seed-corn  equally  among  the  furrows,  and  he  reaped  the 
crop  in  its  season,  and  saw  it  safely  covered  in  from  the  storms  of  winter  with  "thack  and  rape  ;" 
his  wife,  too,  superintended  the  dairy  with  a  skill  which  she  had  brought  from  Kyle,  and  as  the 
harvest,  for  a  season  or  two,  was  abundant,  and  the  dairy  yielded  butter  and  cheese  for  the 
market,  it  seemed  that  "the  luckless  star"  which  ruled  his  lot  had  relented,  and  now  shone 
unboding  and  benignly.  But  much  more  is  required  than  toil  of  hand  to  make  a  successful 
farmer,  nor  will  the  attention  bestowed  only  by  fits  and  starts,  compensate  for  carelessness  or 
oversight :  frugality,  not  in  one  thing  but  in  all,  is  demanded,  in  small  matters  as  well  as  in  great, 
while  a  careful  mind  and  a  vigilant  eye  must  superintend  the  labours  of  servants,  and  the  whole 
system  of  in-door  and  out-door  economy.  Now,  during  the  three  years  which  Burns  stayed  in 
Ellislapd,  he  neither  wrought  with  that  constant  diligence  which  farming  demands,  nor  did  he 
bestow  upon  it  the  unremitting  attention  of  eye  and  mind  which  such  a  farm  required :  besides 
his  skill  in  husbandry  was  but  moderate — the  rent,  though  of  his  own  fixing,  was  too  high  for 
him  and  for  the  times  ;  the  ground,  though  good,  was  not  so  excellent  as  he  might  have  had  on 
the  same  estate — he  employed  more  servants  than  the  number  of  acres  demanded,  and  spread  for 
them  a  richer  board  than  common :  when  we  have  said  this  we  need  not  add  the  expensive  tastes 
induced  by  poetry,  to  keep  readers  from  starting,  when  they  are  told  that  Burns,  at  the  close  of 
the  third  year  of  occupation,  resigned  his  lease  to  the  landlord,  and  bade  farewell  for  ever  to  the 
plough.  He  was  not,  however,  quite  desolate ;  he  had  for  a  year  or  more  been  appointed  on  the 
excise,  and  had  superintended  a  district  extending  to  ten  large  parishes,  with  applause;  indeed, 
it  has  been  assigned  as  the  chief  reason  for  failure  in  his  farm,  that  when  the  plough  or  the  sickle 
summoned  him  to  the  field,  he  was  to  be  found,  either  pursuing  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue, 
among  the  vallej'^s  of  Dumfrieshire,  or  measuring  out  pastoral  verse  to  the  beauties  of  the  land. 
He  retired  to  a  house  in  the  Bank-veniiel  otJDumfries,  and  commenced  a^ town-life :  he  commenced 
it  with  an  empty  pocket,  for  Ellisland  had  swallowed  up  all  the  profits  of  his  poems :  he  had  now 
neither  a  barn  to  produce  meal  nor  barley,  a  barn-yard  to  yield  a  fat  hen,  a  field  to  which  he 
30uld  go  at  Martinmas  for  a  mart,  nor  a  dairy  to  supply  milk  and  cheese  and  butter  to  the  table 
— he  had,  in  snort,  all  to  buy  and  little  to  buy  with.  He  regarded  it  as  a  compensation  that  he 
had  no  farm-rent  to  provide,  no  bankruptcies  to  dread,  no  horse  to  keep,  for  his  excise  duties  were 
now  confined  to  Dumfries,  and  that  the  burthen  of  a  barren  farm  was  removed  from  his  mind,  and 
hi^fmuse  at  liberty  to  renew  her  unsolicited  strains. 

ut  from  the  day  of  his  departure  from  "the  barren"  Ellisland,  the  downward  course  of  Burns 
y  be  dated.     The  cold  neglect  of  his  country  had  driven  him  back  indignantly  to  the  plough, 
'nd  he  hoped  to  gain  from  the  furrowed  field  that  independence  which  it  was  the  duty  of  Scotland 
0  have  provided :  but  he  did  not  resume  the  plough  with  all  the  advantages  he  possessed  when 
he  first  forsook  it:  he  had  revelled  in  the  luxuries  of  polished  life — his  tastes  had  been  rendered 
expensive  as  well  as  pure :  he  had  witnessed,  and  he  hoped  for  the  pleasures  of  literary  retire- 
ment, while  the  hands  which  had  led  jewelled  dames  over  scented  carpets  to  supper  tables  loaded 
ith  silver  took  hold  of  the  hilts  of  the  plough  with  more  of  reluctance  than  goodwill.     Edinburgh, 
tith  its  lords  and  its  ladies,  its  delights  and  its  hopes,  spoiled  him  for  farming.     Nor  were  his 
new  labours  more  acceptable  to  his  haughty  spirit  than  those  of  the  plough:  the  excise  for  a 


JUS   DUTIES   AS   EXCISEMAN.  xlix 

eentury  had  been  a  word  of  opprobrium  or  of  hatred  in  the  north :  the  duties  which  it  imposed 
were  regarded,  not  by  peasants  alone,  as  a  serious  encroachment  upon  the  ancient  rights  of  the 
nation,  and  to  mislead  a  ganger,  or  resist  him,  even  to  blood,  was  considered  by  few  as  a  fault. 
That  the  brightest  genius  of  the  nation — one  whose  tastes  and  sensibilities  were  so  peculiarly  its 
own — should  be,  as  a  reward,  set  to  look  after  run-rum  and  smuggled  tobacco,  and  to  gauge 
ale-wife's  barrels,  was  a  regret  and  a  marvel  to  many,  and  a  source  of  bitter  merriment  to  Burns 
.himself. 

The  duties  of  his  situation  were  however  performed  punctually,  if  not  with  pleasure :  he  was  a 
vigilant  officer;  he  was  also  a  merciful  and  considerate  one:  though  loving  a  joke,  and  not  at  ail 
averse  to  a  dram,  he  walked  among  suspicious  brewers,  captious  ale-wives,  and  frowning  shop- 
keepers as  uprightly  as  courteously :  he  smoothed  the  ruggedest  natures  into  acquiescence  by  his 
gayety  and  humour,  and  yet  never  gave  cause  for  a  malicious  remark,  by  allowing  his  vigilance 
to  slumber.  He  was  brave,  too,  and  in  the  capture  of  an  armed  smuggler,  in  which  he  led  the 
attack,  showed  that  he  neither  feared  water  nor  fire :  he  loved,  also,  to  counsel  the  more  forward 
of  the  smugglers  to  abandon  their  dangerous  calling ;  his  sympathy  for  the  helpless  poor  induced 
tim  to  give  them  now  and  then  notice  of  his  approach ;  he  has  been  known  to  interpret  the  severe 
laws  of  the  excise  into  tenderness  and  mercy  in  behalf  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless.  In  all 
this  h(  iid  but  his  duty  to  his  country  and  his  kind :  and  his  conduct  was  so  regarded  by  a  very 
competent  and  candid  judge.  "  Let  me  look  at  the  books  of  Burns,"  said  Maxwell,  of  Terraughty, 
at  the  meeting  of  the  district  magistrates,  "for  they  show  that" an  upright  officer  may  be  a 
merciful  one."  With  a  salary  of  some  seventy  pounds  a  year,  the  chance  of  a  few  guineas  annually 
from  the  future  editions  of  his  poems,  and  the  hope  of  rising  at  some  distant  day  to  the  more 
lucrative  situation  of  supervisor.  Burns  continued  to  live  in  Dumfries ;  first  in  the  Bahk-vennel, 
and  next  in  a  small  house  in  a  humble  street,  since  called  by  his  name. 

In  his  earlier  years  the  poet  seems  to  have  scattered  songs  as  thick  as  a  summer  eve  scatters 
its  dews ;  nor  did  he  scatter  them  less  carelessly :  he  appears,  indeed,  to  have  thought  much  less 
of  them  than  of  his  poems :  the  sweet  song  of  Mary  Morison,  and  others  not  at  all  inferior,  lay 
uure^a,rded  among  his  papers  till  accident  called  them  out  to  shine  and  be  admired.  Many  of 
these  brief  but  happy  compositions,  sometimes  with  his  name,  and  oftener  without,  he  threw  in 
dozens  at  a  time  into  Johnson,  where  they  were  noticed  only  by  the  captious  Ritson :  but  now  a 
work  of  higher  pretence  claimed  a  share  in  his  skill:  in  September,  1792,  he  was  requested  by 
George  Thomson  to  render,  for  his  national  collection,  the  poetry  worthy  of  the  muses  of  the 
north,  and  to  take  compassion  on  many  choice  airs,  which  had  waited  for  a  poet  like  the  author  of 
the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  to  wed  them  to  immortal  verse.  To  engage  in  such  an  undertaking, 
Burns  required  small  persuasion,  and  while  Thomson  asked  for  strains  delicate  and  polished,  the 
poet  characteristically  stipulated  that  his  contributions  were  to  be  without  remuneration,  and  the 
language  seasoned  with  a  sprinkling  of  the  Scottish  dialect.  As  his  heart  was  much  in  the  matter, 
lie  began  to  pour  out  verse  with  a  readiness  and  talent  unknown  in  the  history  of  song :  his 
engagement  with  Thomson,  and  his  esteem  for  Johnson,  gave  birth  to  a  series  of  songs  as  brilliant 
as  varied,  and  as  naturally  easy  as  they  were  gracefully  original.  In  looking  over  those  very 
dissimilar  collections  it  is  not  difficult  to  discover  that  the  songs  which  he  wrote  for  the  more 
stately  work,  while  they  are  more  polished  and  elegant  than  those  which  he  contributed  to  the 
lejs  pretending  one,  are  at  the  same  time  less  happy  in  their  humour  and  less  simple  in  their 

thos.     "What  pleases  me  as  simple  and  naive,"  says  Burns  to  Thomson,  "disgusts  you  as 

dicrous  and  low.  For  this  reason  *Fye,  gie  me  my  coggie,  sirs,'  'Fye,  let  us  a'  to  the  bridal,' 
with  several  others  of  that  cast,  are  to  me  highly  pleasing,  while  '  Saw  ye  my  Father'  delights  me 
with  its  descriptive  simple  pathos :"  we  read  in  these  words  the  reasons  of  the  difference  between 
the  lyrics  of  the  two  collections. 

The  land  where  the  poet  lived  furnished  ready  materials  for  song :  hills  with  fine  woods,  valea 
with  clear  waters,  and  dames  as  lovely  as  any  recorded  in  verse,  were  to  be  had  in  his  walks 
and  his  visits ;  while,  for  the  purposes  of  mirth  or  of  humour,  characters,  in  whose  faces  originality 
was  legibly  written,  were  as  numerous  in  Nithsdale  as  he  had  found  them  in  the  west.  He  had 
been  reproached,  while  in  Kyle,  with  seeing  charms  in  very  ordinary  looks,  and  hanging  th« 
4 


LIFE   OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


garlands  of  the  muse  on  unlovely  altars ;  he  was  liahle  to  no  such  censure  in  Nithsdale ;  he 
poured  out  the  incense  of  poetry  only  on  the  fair  and  captivating :  his  Jeans,  his  Lucys,  his 
Phillises,  and  his  Jessies  were  ladies  of  such  mental  or  personal  charms  as  the  Reynolds's 
and  the  Lawrences  of  the  time  would  have  rejoiced  to  lay  out  their  choicest  colours  on.  But 
he  did  not  limit  himself  to  the  charms  of  those  whom  he  could  step  out  to  the  walks  and 
admire :  his  lyrics  give  evidence  of  the  wandering  of  his  thoughts  to  the  distant  or  the  dead — he 
loves  to  remember  Charlotte  Hamilton  and  Mary  Campbell,  and  think  of  the  sighs  and  vows  on 
the  Devon  and  the  Doon,  while  his  harpstrings  were  still  quivering  to  the  names  of  the  Millers  and 
the  M'Murdos — to  the  charms  of  the  lasses  with  golden  or  with  flaxen  locks,  in  the  valley  where 
lie  dwelt.  Of  Jean  M'Murdo  and  her  sister  Phillis  he  loved  to  sing;  and  their  beauty  merited 
hia  strains :  to  one  who  died  in  her  bloom,  Lucy  Johnston,  he  addressed  a  song  of  great  sweet- 
ness; to  Jessie  Lewars,  two  or  three  songs  of  gratitude  and  praise:  nor  did  he  forget  other 
beauties,  for  the  accomplished  Mrs.  Riddel  is  remembered,  and  the  absence  of  fair  Clarinda  is 
lamented  in  strains  both  impassioned  and  pathetic. 

!'  But  the  main  inspirer  of  the  latter  songs  of  Burns  was  a  young  woman  of  humble  birth :  of  a 
rorm  equal  to  the  most  exquisite  proportions  of  sculpture,  with  bloom  on  her  cheeks,  and  merri- 
fment  in  her  large  bright  eyes,  enough  to  drive  an  amatory  poet  crazy.  Her  name  was  Jean 
Lorimer;  she  was  not  more  than  seventeen  when  the  poet  made  her  acquaintance,  and  though 
she  had  got  a  sort  of  brevet-right  from  an  ofl&cer  of  the  army,  to  use  his  southron  name  of  Whelp 
dale,  she  loved  best  to  be  addressed  by  her  maiden  designation,  while  the  poet  chose  to  veil  her 
in  the  numerous  lyrics,  to  which  she  gave  life,  under  the  names  of  "Chloris,"  "The  lass  of 
Craigie-burnwood,"  and  "  The  lassie  wi'  the  lintwhite  locks."  Though  of  a  temper  not  much 
inclined  to  conceal  anything.  Burns  complied  so  tastefully  with  the  growing  demand  of  the  age 
for  the  exterior  decencies  of  life,  that  when  the  scrupling  dames  of  Caledonia  sung  a  new  song 
in  her  praise,  they  were  as  unconscious  whence  its  beauties  came,  as  is  the  lover  of  art,  that  the 
shape  and  the  gracefulness  of  the  marble  nymph  which  he  admires,  are  derived  from  a  creature 
who  sells  the  use  of  her  charms  indifferently  to  sculpture  or  to  love.  Fine  poetry,  like  other  arts 
called  tine,  springs  from  "strange  places,"  as  the  flower  in  the  fable  said,  when  it  bloomed  on 
the  dunghill ;  nor  is  Burns  more  to  be  blamed  than  was  Raphael,  who  painted  Madonnas,  and 
Magdalens  with  dishevelled  hair  and  lifted  eyes,  from  a  loose  lady,  whom  the  pope,  "Holy  at 
Rome — here  Antichrist,"  charitably  prescribed  to  the  artist,  while  he  laboured  in  the  cause  of 
the  church.  Of  the  poetic  use  which  he  made  of  Jean  Lorimer's  charms.  Burns  gives  this  account 
to  Thomson.  "The  lady  on  whom  the  song  of  Craigie-burnwood  was  made  is  one  of  the  finest 
women  in  Scotland,  and  in  fact  is  to  me  in  a  manner  what  Sterne's  Eliza  was  to  him — a  mistress, 
or  friend,  or  what  you  will,  in  the  guileless  simplicity  of  platonic  love.  I  assure  you  that  to  my 
lovely  friend  you  are  indebted  for  many  of  my  best  songs.  Do  you  think  that  the  sober  gin-horse 
routine  of  existence  could  inspire  a  man  with  life  and  love  and  joy — could  fire  him  with  enthusiasm, 
or  melt  him  with  pathos,  equal  to  the  genius  of  your  book  ?  No  !  no !  Whenever  I  want  to  be 
more  than  ordinary  in  song — to  be  in  some  degree  equal  to  your  diviner  airs — do  you  imagine  I 
fast  and  pray  for  the  celestial  emanation  ?  Quite  the  contrary.  I  have  a  glorious  recipe ;  the 
very  one  that  for  his  own  use  was  invented  by  the  divinity  of  healing  and  poesy,  when  erst  h« 
piped  to  the  flocks  of  Admetus.  I  put  myself  in  a  regimen  of  admiring  a  fine  woman ;  and  in 
proportion  to  the  adorability  of  her  charms,  in  proportion  are  you  delighted  with  my  verses. 
The  lightning  of  her  eye  is  the  godhead  of  Parnassus,  and  the  witchery  of  her  smile,  the  divinitj 
of  Helicon."  • 

Most  of  the  songs  which  he  composed  under  the  influences  to  which  I  have  alluded  are  of  tht 
first  order:  "Bonnie  Lesley,"  "Highland  Mary,"  "Auld  Rob  Morris,"  "Duncan  Gray,"  "Wan- 
ering  Willie,"  "Meg  o'  the  Mill,"  "The  poor  and  honest  sodger,"  "Bonnie  Jean,"  "Phillis  the 
air,"  "John  Anderson  my  Jo,*'  "  Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore,"  "  Whistle  and  I'll  come 
to  you,  my  lad,"  "Bruce's  Address  to  his  men  at  Bannockburn,"  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  "  Thine  am 
I,  my  faithful  fair,"  "  Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,"  "  0  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves,"  "  Con- 
tented wi'  little,  and  cantie  wi'  mair,"  "Their  groves  of  sweet  myrtle,"  "Last  May  abraw  wooer 
came  down  the  lang  glen,"  "0  Mally's  meek,  Mally's  sweet,"  "Hey  for  r  lass  wi'  a  tocher," 


THE   HERON   BALLADS. 


f 


"  L'ere's  a  health  to  ane  I  loe  dear,"  and  the  **  Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks."  Many  of  th« 
latter  lyrics  of  Burns  were  more  or  less  altered,  to  put  them  into  better  harmony  with  the  airs, 
and  I  am  not  the  only  one  who  has  wondered  that  a  bard  so  impetuous  and  intractable  in  most 
matters,  should  have  become  so  soft  and  pliable,  as  to  make  changes  which  too  often  sacrificed 
the  poetry  for  the  sake  of  a  fuller  and  more  swelling  sound.  It  is  true  that  the  emphatic  notes 
of  the  music  must  find  their  echo  in  the  emphatic  words  of  the  verse,  and  that  words  soft  and 
liquid  are  fitter  for  ladies'  lips,  than  words  hissing  and  rough;  but  it  is  also  true  that  in  changing 
a  liarsher  word  for  one  more  harmonious  the  sense  often  suffers,  and  that  happiness  of  expression, 
and  that  dance  of  words  which  lyric  verse  requires,  lose  much  of  their  life  and  vigour.  TJie 
poet's  favourite  walk  in  composing  his  songs  was  on  a  beautiful  green  sward  on  the  northern  side 
of  the  Nith,  opposite  Lincluden ;  and  his  favourite  posture  for  composition  at  home  was  balancing 
himself  on  the  hind  legs  of  his  arm-chair. 

While  indulging  in  these  lyrical  flights,  politics  penetrated  into  Nithsdale,  and  disturbed  the 
tranquillity  of  that  secluded  region.  First,  there  came  a  contest  for  the  representation  of  the 
Dumfries  district  of  boroughs,  between  Patrick  Miller,  younger,  of  Dalswinton,  and  Sir  James 
Johnstone,  of  Westerhall,  and  some  two  years  afterwards,  a  struggle  for  the  representation  of  the 
county  of  Kirkcudbright,  between  the  interest  of  the  Stewarts,  of  Galloway,  and  Patrick  Heron, 
of  Kerroughtree.  In  the  first  of  these  the  poet  mingled  discretion  with  his  mirth,  and  raised  a 
hearty  laugh,  in  which  both  parties  joined ;  for  this  sobriety  of  temper,  good  reasons  may  be 
assigned :  Miller,  the  elder,  of  Dalswinton,  had  desired  to  oblige  him  in  the  affair  of  Ellisland, 
and  his  firm  and  considerate  friend,  M'Murdo,  of  Drumlanrig,  was  chamberlain  to  his  Grace  of 
Queensbury,  on  whose  interest  Miller  stood.  Oh  the  other  hand,  his  old  Jacobitical  affections 
made  him  the  secret  well-wisher  to  Westerhall,  for  up  to  this  time,  at  least  till  acid  disappoint- 
ment and  the  democratic  doctrine  of  the  natural  equality  of  man  influenced  him.  Burns,  or  as  a 
western  rhymer  of  his  day  and  district  Avorded  the  reproach — Rob  was  a  Tory.  His  situation,  it 
will  therefore  be  observed,  disposed  him  to  moderation,  and  accounts  for  the  milkiness  of  his 
Epistle  to  Fintray,' in  which  hemarshals  the  chiefs  of  the  contending  factions,  and  foretells  the 
fierceness  of  the  strife,  without  pretending  to  foresee  the  event.  Neither  is  he  more  explicit, 
though  infinitely  more  humorous,  in  his  ballad  of  "  The  Five  Carlins,"  in  which  he  impersonates 
the  five  boroughs — Dumfries,  Kirkcudbright,  Lochmaben,  Sanquhar,  and  Annan,  and  draws 
their  characters  as  shrewd  and  calculating  dames,  met  in  much  wrath  and  drink  to  choose  a 
representative. 

But  the  two  or  three  years  which  elapsed  between  the  election  for  the  boroughs,  and  that  for 
the  county  adjoining,  wrought  a  serious  change  in  the  temper  as  well  as  the  opinions  of  the  poet. 
His  Jacobitism,  as  has  been  said,  was  of  a  poetic  kind,  and  put  on  but  in  obedience  to  old  feelings, 
and  made  no  part  of  the  man :  he  was  in  his  heart  as  democratic  as  the  kirk  of  Scotland,  which 
educated  him — he  acknowledged  no  other  superiority  but  the  mental:  "he  was  disposed,  too," 
said  Professor  Walker,  "from  constitutional  temper,  from  education  and  the  accidents  of  life,  to 
a  jealousy  of  power,  and  a  keen  hostility  against  every  system  which  enabled  birth  and  opulence 
to  anticipate  those  rewards  which  he  conceived  to  belong  to  genius  and  virtue."     When  we  add 

I  to  this,  a  resentment  of  the  injurious  treatment  of  the  dispensers  of  public  patronage,  who  had 
neglected  his  claims,  and  showered  pensions  and  places  on  men  unworthy  of  being  named  with 
him,  we  have  assigned  causes  for  the  change  of  side  and  the  tone  of  asperity  and  bitterness 
infused  into  "  The  Heron  Ballads."  Formerly  honey  was  mixed  with  his  gall :  a  little  praise 
sweetened  his  censure :  in  these  el ftfitin^^  i'?'BUag8BS  h^  ISi  fierce  and  ^yen  venompi^^  : — no  man  has 
a  head  but  what  is  empty,  nor  a  heart  that  is  not  black :  men  descended  without  reproach  from 
\\no<  of  heroes  are  stigmatized  as  cowards,  and  the  honest  and  conscientious  are  reproached  as 
Ti,'-  rly,  mean,  and  dishonourable.  Such  is  the  spirit  of  party.  *'  I  have  privately,"  thus  writes 
the  poet  to  Heron, '^'printed  a  good  many  copies  of  the  ballads,  and  have  sent  them  among  friends 
about  the  country.  You  have  already,  as  your  auxiliary,  the  sober  detestation  of  mankind  on 
the  heads  of  your  opponents ;  and  I  swear  by  the  lyre  of  Thalia,  to  muster  on  your  side  all  the 
votaries  of  honest  laughter  and  fair,  candij  ridicule."  The  ridicule  was  uncandid,  and  the 
kughter  dishonest.     The  poet  was  xmfortunate  in  his  political  attachments :  Miller  gained  the 


/ 


\ 


lii  LIFE   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

boroughs  which  Burns  wished  he  might  lose,  and  Heron  lost  the  county  which  he  foretold  he  would 
gain.  It  must  also  be  recorded  against  the  good  taste  of  the  poet,  that  he  loved  to  recite  "  The 
Heron  Ballads,"  and  reckon  them  among  his  happiest  compositions. 

From  attacking  others,  the  poet  was — in  the  interval  between  penning  these  election  lajipoons 
— called  on  to  defend  himself:  for  this  he  seems  to  have  been  quite  unprepared,  though  in  those 
yeasty  times  he  might  have  expected  it.  *'  I  have  been  surprised,  confounded,  and  distracted,*' 
he  thus  writes  to  Graham,  of  Fintray,  "by  Mr,  Mitchell,  the  collector,  telling  me  that  he  has 
received  an  order  from  your  board  to  inquire  into  my  political  conduct,  and  blaming  me  as  a  per- 
son disaffected  to  government.  Sir,  you  are  a  husband  and  a  father :  you  know  what  you  would 
feel,  to  ser)  the  much-loved  wife  of  your  bosom,  and  your  helpless  prattling  little  ones,  turned 
adrift  into  the  world,  degraded  and  disgraced,  from  a  situation  in  which  they  had  been  respectable 
and  respected.  I  would  not  tell  a  deliberate  falsehood,  no,  not  though  even  worse  horrors,  if 
worse  can  be  than  those  I  have  mentioned,  hung  over  my  head,  and  I  say  that  the  allegation, 
whatever  villain  has  made  it,  is  a  lie!  To  the  British  constitution,  on  Revolution  principles,  next 
af^r  my  God,  I  am  devotedly  attached.  To  your  patronage  as  a  man  of  some  genius,  you  have 
avowed  me  a  claim ;  and  your  esteem  as  an  honest  man  I  know  is  my  due.  To  these,  sir,  permit 
^^e  to  appeal :  by  these  I  adjure  you  to  save  me  from  that  misery  which  threatens  to  overwhelm 
me,  and  which  with  my  latest  breath  I  will  say  I  have  not  deserved."  In  this  letter,  another, 
intended  for  the  eye  of  the  Commissioners  of  the  Board  of  Excise,  was  enclosed,  in  which  be  dis- 
.  claimed  entertaining  the  idea  of  a  British  republic — a  wild  dream  of  the  day — but  stood  by  the 
f  principles  of  the  constitution  of  1688,  with  the  wish  to  see  such  corruptions  as  had  crept  in, 
amended.  This  last  remark,  it  appears,  by  a  letter  from  the  poet  to  Captain  Erskine,  afterwards 
Earl  of  Mar,  gave  great  offence,  for  Corbet,  one  of  the  superiors,  was  desired  to  inform  him,  "that 
his  business  was  to  act,  and  not  to  think ;  and  that  whatever  might  be  men  or  measures,  it  was 
his  duty  to  be  silent  and  obedient."  The  intercession  of  Fintray,  and  the  explanations  of  Burns, 
were  so  far  effectual,  that  his  political  offence  was  foi'given,  "only  I  understand,"  said  he,  "that 
all  hopes  of  my  getting  officially  forward  are  blasted."  The  records  of  the  Excise  Office  exhibit 
no  trace  of  this  memorable  matter,  and  two  noblemen,  who  were  then  in  the  government,  have 
assured  me  that  this  harsh  proceeding  received  no  countenance  at  head-quarters,  and  must  have 
originated  with  some  ungenerous  or  malicious  person,  on  whom  the  poet  had  spilt  a  little  of  the 
nitric  acid  of  his  wrath. 

That  Burns  was  numbered  among  the  republicans  of  Dumfries  I  well  remember :  but  then 
those  who  held  different  sentiments  from  the  men  in  power,  were  all,  in  that  loyal  town,  stigma- 
tized as  democrats :  that  he  either  desired  to  see  the  constitution  changed,  or  his  country  invaded 
by  the  liberal  French,  who  proposed  to  set  us  free  with  the  bayonet,  and  then  admit  us  to  the 
"fraternal  embrace,"  no  one  ever  believed.     It  is  true  that  he  spoke  of  premiers  and  peers  with 

V Contempt;  that  he  hesitated  to  take  off  his  hat  in  the  theatre,  to  the  air  of  "  God  save  the  king;" 
that  he  refused  to  drink  the  health  of  Pitt,  saying  he  preferred  that  of  Washington— a  far  greater 
man ;  that  he  wrote  bitter  words  against  that  combination  of  princes,  who  desired  to  put  down 
freedom  in  France ;  that  he  said  the  titled  spurred  and  the  wealthy  switched  England  and  Scot- 
land like  two  hack-horses ;  and  that  all  the  high  places  of  the  land,  instead  of  being  filled  by 
genius  and  talent,  were  occupied,  as  were  the  high-places  of  Israel,  with  idols  of  wood  or  of 
stone.  But  all  this  and  more  had  been  done  and  said  before  by  thousands  in  this  land,  whose 
love  of  their  country  was  never  questioned.  That  it  was  bad  taste  to  refuse  to  remove  his  ha,t 
hen  other  heads  were  bared,  and  little  better  to  refuse  to  pledge  in  company  the  name  of  Pitt, 
ecause  he  preferred  Washington,  cannot  admit  of  a  doubt ;  but  that  he  deserved  to  be  written 

(fiown  traitor,  for  mere  matters  of  whim  or  caprice,  or  to  be  turned  out  of  the  unenvied  situation 
%i  "gauging  auld  wives'  barrels,"  because  he  thought  there  were  some  stains  on  the  white  robe 
of  the  constitution,  seems  a  sort  of  tyranny  new  in  the  history  of  oppression.  His  love  of 
country  is  recorded  in  too  many  undying  lines  to  admit  of  a  doubt  now :  nor  is  it  that  chivalrous 
love  alone  which  men  call  romantic ;  it  is  a  love  which  may  be  laid  up  in  every  man's  heart  and 
practised  in  every  man's  life;  the  words  are  homely,  but  the  words  of  Burns  are  always 
expressive : — 


HIS  ILLNESS— LETTER  TO    CLARKE.  la 

"The  kettle  of  the  kirk  and  state 

Perhaps  a  clout  may  fail  in't, 
But  deil  a  foreign  tinkler  loon 

Shall  ever  ca'  a  nail  in't. 
Be  Britons  still  to  Britons  true, 

Ainang  ourselves  united ; 
For  never  but  by  British  hands 

Shall  British  wrongs  be  righted. '» 

But  while  verses,  deserving  as  tliese  do  to  become  the  national  motto,  and  sentiments  ioyal  xai 
■generous,  were  overlooked  and  forgotten,  all  his  rash  words  about  freedom,  and  his  sarcastio 
■Bailies  about  thrones  and  kings,  were  treasured  up  to  his  injury,  by  the  mean  and  the  malicious 
%Iis  steps  were  watched  and  his  words  weighed ;  when  he  talked  with  a  friend  in  the  street,  ho 
was  supposed  to  utter  sedition ;  and  when  ladies  retired  from  the  table,  and  the  wine  circulated 
with  closed  doors,  he  was  suspected  of  treason  rather  than  of  toasting,  which  he  often  did  with 
much  humour,  the  charms  of  woman ;  even  when  he  gave  as  a  sentiment,  "  May  our  success  be 
^  equal  to  the  justice  of  our  cause,"  he  was  liable  to  be  challenged  by  some  gunpowder  captain, 
who  thought  that  we  deserved  success  in  war,  whether  right  or  wrong.  It  is  true  that  he  hated 
with  a  most  cordial  hatred  all  who  presumed  on  their  own  consequence,  whether  arising  from 
wealth,  titles,  or  commissions  in  the  army;  oflBicers  he  usually  called  "the  epauletted  puppies," 
and  lords  he  generally  spoke  of  as  "  feather-headed  fools,"  who  could  but  strut  and  stare  and  be 
insolent.  All  this  was  not  to  be  endured  meekly:  scorn  was  answered  with  scorn;  and  having 
no  answer  in  kind  to  retort  his  satiric  flings,  his  unfriends  reported  that  it  was  unsafe  for  young 
men  to'  associate  with  one  whose  principles  were  democratic,  and  scarcely  either  modest  or  safe 
for  young  women  to  listen  to  a  poet  whose  notions  of  female  virtue  were  so  loose  and  his  songs 
BO  free.  These  sentiments  prevailed  so  far  that  a  gentleman  on  a  visit  from  London,  told  me  he 
was  dissuaded  from  inviting  Burns  to  a  dinner,  given  by  way  of  welcome  back  to  his  native  place, 
because  he  was  the  associate  »f  democrats  and  loosg,jfeQpj,fij  and  when  a  modest  dame  of  Dumfries 
expressed,  t£rou^"arfriehd,~  a  wish  to'lTave  but  the  honour  of  speaking  to  one  of  whose  genius  she 
was  an  admirer,  the  poet  declined  the  interview,  with  a  half-serious  smile,  saying,  "Alas!  she 
is  handsome,  and  you  know  the  character  publicly  assigned  to  me."  She  escaped  the  danger  of 
being  numbered,  it  is  likely,  with  the  Annas  and  the  Chlorises  of  his  freer  strains. 

The  neglect  of  his  country,  the  tyranny  of  the  Excise,  and  the  downfall  of  his  hopes  and  for- 
tunes, were  now  to  bring  forth  their  fruits — the  poet's  health  began  to  decline.  His  drooping  / 
looks,  his  neglect  of  his  person,  his  solitary  saunterings,  his  escape  from  the  stings  of  reflection 
into  socialities,  and  his  distempered  joy  in  the  company  of  beauty,  all  spoke,  as  plainly  as  with  a 
tongue,  of  a  sinking  heart  and  a  declining  body.  Yet  though  he  was  sensible  of  sinking  health, 
hope  did  not  at  once  desert  him :  he  continued  to  pour  out  such  tender  strains,  and  to  show  such 
flaehes  of  wit  and  humour  at  the  call  of  Thomson,  as  are  recorded  of  no  other  lyrist:  neither  did 
he,  when  in  company  after  his  own  mind,  hang  the  head,  and  speak  mournfully,  but  talked  and 
smiled  and  still  charmed  all  listeners  by  his  witty  vivacities. 

On  the  26th  of  June,  1795,  he  writes  thus  of  his  fortunes  and  condition  to  his  friend  Clarke. 
**  Still,  still  the  victim  of  affliction ;  were  you  to  see  the  emaciated  figure  who  now  holds  the  pen 
to  you,  you  would  not  know  your  old  friend.  Whether  I  shall  ever  get  about  again  is  only  known 
to  IIiM,  the  Great  Unknown,  whose  creature  I  am.  Alas,  Clarke,  I  begin  to  fear  the  worst !  As 
to  my  individual  self  I  am  tranquil,  and  would  despise  myself  if  I  were  not :  but  Burns's  poor 
widow  and  half-a-dozen  of  his  dear  little  ones,  helpless  orphans !  Here  I  am  as  weak  as  a  woman's 
tear.  Enough  of  this  !  'tis  half  my  disease.  I  duly  received  your  last,  enclosing  the  note  :  it 
came  extremely  in  time,  and  I  am  much  obliged  to  your  punctuality.  Again  I  must  request  you 
to  do  me  the  same  kindness.  Be  so  very  good  as  by  return  of  post  to  enclose  me  another  note  :  I 
trust  you  can  do  so  without  inconvenience,  and  it  will  seriously  oblige  me.  If  I  must  go,  I  leave 
a  few  friends  behind  me,  whom  I  shall  regret  while  consciousness  remains.  I  know  I  shall  live  in 
their  remembrana^  0,  dear,  dear  Clarke !  that  I  shall  ever  see  you  again  is  I  am  afraid  highly 
mprobablc."  ;^his  remarkable  letter  proves  both  the  declining  health,  and  the  poverty  of  thfl 
poet:  his  digestion  was  so  bad  that  he  could  taste  neither  flesh  nor  fish:  porridge  and  milk  h« 


liv  LIFE   OF   EGBERT   BURNS. 

could  alone  swallo-w,  and  that  but  in  small  quantities.  When  it  is  recollected  that  he  had  no  more 
than  thirty  shillings  a  week  to  keep  house,  and  live  like  a  gentleman,  no  one  need  wonder  that  his 
wife  had  to  be  obliged  to  a  generous  neighbour  for  some  of  the  chief  necessaries  for  her  coming 
confinement,  and  that  the  poet  had  to  beg,  in  extreme  need,  two  guinea  notes  from  a  distant  friend. 
His  sinking  state  was  not  unobserved  by  his  friends,  and  Syme  and  M'Murdo  united  with  Dr. 
Maxwell  in  persuading  him,  at  the  beginning  of  the  summer,  to  seek  health  at  the  Brow-well,  a 
ffew  miles  east  of  Dumfries,  where  there  were  pleasant  walks  on  the  Solway-side,  and  salubrious 
breezes  from  the  sea,  which  it  was  expected  would  bring  the  health  to  the  poet  they  had 
brought  to  many.  For  a  while,  his  looks  brightened  up,  and  health  seemed  inclined  to  return : 
his  friend,  the  witty  and  accomplished  Mrs.  Riddel,  who  was  herself  ailing,  paid  him  a  visit. 
"I  was  struck,"  she  said,  "with  his  appearance  on  entering  the  room:  the  stamp  of  death  was 
impressed  on  his  features.  His  first  words  were,  *  Well,  Madam,  have  you  any  commands  for  the 
other  world?'  I  replied  that  it  seemed  a  doubtful  case  which  of  us  should  be  there  soonest;  he 
looked  in  my  face  with  an  air  of  great  kindness,  and  expressed  his  concern  at  seeing  me  so  ill, 
wijjfhis  usual  sensibility.  At  table  he  ate  little  or  nothing:  we  had  a  long  conversation  about 
his  present  state,  and  the  approaching  termination  of  all  his  earthly  prospects.  He  showed  great 
\Jconcern  about  his  literary  fame,  and  particularly  the  publication  of  his  posthumous  works ;  he 

(said  he  was  well  aware  that  his  death  would  occasion  some  noise,  and  that  every  scrap  of  bis  writing 
would  be  revived  against  him,  to  the  injury  of  his  future  reputation;  that  letters  and  verses, 
written  with  unguarded  freedom,  would  be  handed  about  by  vanity  or  malevolence  when  no  dread 
of  his  resentment  would  restrain  them,  or  prevent  malice  or  envy  from  pouring  forth  their  venom 
on  his  name.  I  had  seldom  seen  his  mind  greater,  or  more  collected.  There  was  frequently  a 
considerable  degree  of  vivacity  in  his  sallies  ;  but  the  concern  and  dejection  I  could  not  disguise, 
damped  the  spirit  of  pleasantry  he  seemed  willing  to  indulge."  This  was  on  the  evening  of  the 
5th  of  July ;  another  lady  who  called  to  see  him,  found  him  seated  at  a  window,  gazing  on  the 
sun,  then  setting  brightly  on  the  summits  of  the  green  hills  of  Nithsdale.  "Look  how  lovely  the 
sun  is,"  said  the  poet,  "but  he  will  soon  have  done  with  shining  for  me." 

He  now  longed  for  home :  his  wife,  whom  he  ever  tenderly  loved,  was  about  to  be  confined  in 
child-bed :  his  papers  were  in  sad  confusion,  and  required  arrangement ;  and  he  felt  that  desire 
to  die,  at  least,  among  familiar  things  and  friendly  faces,  so  common  to  our  nature.  He  had  not 
long  before,  though  much  reduced  in  pocket,  refused  with  scorn  an  oflFer  of  fifty  pounds,  which  a 
speculating  bookseller  made,  for  leave  to  publish  his  looser  compositions ;  he  had  refused  an 
offer  of  the  like  sum  yearly,  from  Perry  of  the  Morning  Chronicle,  for  poetic  contributions  to  his 
paper,  lest  it  might  embroil  him  with  the  ruling  powers,  and  he  had  resented  the  remittance  of 
five  pounds  from  Thomson,  on  account  of  his  lyric  contributions,  and  desired  him  to  do  so  no 
more,  unless  he  wished  to  quarrel  with  him  ;  but  his  necessities  now,  and  they  had  at  no  time 
been  so  great,  induced  him  to  solicit  five  pounds  from  Thomson,  and  ten  pounds  from  his  cousin, 
James  Burness,  of  Montrose,  and  to  beg  his  friend  Alexander  Cunningham  to  intercede  with  the 
Commissioners  of  Excise,  to  depart  from  their  usual  practice,  and  grant  him  his  full  salary ;  "for 
without  that,"  he  added,  "  if  I  die  not  of  disease,  T  must  perish  with  hunger."  Thomson  sent  the 
five  pounds,  James  Burness  sent  the  ten,  but  the  Commissioners  of  Excise  refused  to  be  either 
merciful  or  generous.  Stobie,  a  young  expectant  in  the  customs,  was  both ; — he  performed  the 
duties  of  the  dying  poet,  and  refused  to  touch  the  salary.  The  mind  of  Burns  was  haunted  with 
the  fears  of  want  and  the  terrors  of  a  jail;  nor  were  those  fears  without  foundation;  one  Wil- 
liamson, to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  the  cloth  to  make  his  volunteer  regimentals,  threatened  the 
one ;  and  a  feeling  that  he  was  without  money  for  either  his  own  illness  or  the  confinement  of  his 
wife,  threatened  the  other. 

Burns  returned  from  the  Brow-well,  on  the  18th  of  July:  as  he  walked  from  the  little  carriage 
which  brought  him  up  the  Mill  hole-brae  to  his  own  door,  he  trembled  much,  and  stooped  with 
weakness  and  pain,  and  kept  his  feet  with  diflBculty :  his  looks  were  woe-worn  and  ghastly,  and 
no  one  who  saw  him,  and  there  were  several,  expected  to  see  him  again  in  life.  It  was  soon  cir- 
culated through  Dumfries,  that  Burns  had  returned  worSe  from  the  Brow-well;  that  Maxwell 
thought  ill  of  him,  and  that,  in  truth,  he  was  dying.      The  anxiety  of  all  classes  was  great;  dif 


(r^  n 


HIS   DEATH.  Iv 


ferences  of  opinion  were  forgotten,  in  sympathy  for  his  early  fate :  wherever  two  or  three  were 
met  together  their  talk  was  of  Burns,  of  his  rare  wit,  matchless  humour,  the  vivacity  of  his  con- 
versation, and  the  kindness  of  his  heart.     To  the  poet  himself,  death,  which  he  now  knew  was  at 
hand,  brought  with  it  no  fear ;  his  good-humour,  which  small  matters  alone  ruffled,  did  not 
forsake  him,  and  his  wit  was  ever  ready.     He  was  poor — he  gave  his  pistols,  which  he  had  used 
against  the  smugglers  on  the  Solway,  to  his  physician,  adding  with  a  smile,  that  he  had  tried 
them  and  found  them  an  honour  to  their  maker,  which  was  more  than  he  could  say  of  the  bulk 
of  mankind !    He  was  proud — he  remembered  the  indiflFerent  practice  of  the  corps  to  which  he 
belonged,  and  turning  to  Gibson,  one  of  his  fellow-soldiers,  who  stood  at  his  bedside  with  wet 
l^'es,  "  John,"  said  he,  and  a  gleam  of  humour  passed  over  his  face,  "  pray  don't  let  the  awkward- 
fc^^uad  fire  over  me."    It  was  almost  the  last  act  of  his  life  to  copy  into  his  Common-place  Book,  the 
i  H  letters  which  contained  the  charge  against  him  of  the  Commissioners  of  Excise,  and  his  own  eloquent 
1  1  refutation,  leaving  judgment  to  be  pronoun<jftd-b^  the  candour  of  posterity. 

It  has  been  injuriously  said  of  Burns,  bjTColeridge,  that  the  man  sunk,  but  the  poet  was  bright 
to  the  last :  he  did  not  sink  in  the  sense  thilrt-tliese  words  imply :  the  man  was  manly  to  the  latest 
draught  of  breath.  That  he  was  a  poet  to  the  last,  can  be  proved  by  facts,  as  well  as  by  the  word 
of  the  author  of  Christabel.  As  he  lay  silently  growing  weaker  and  weaker,  he  observed  Jessie 
Lewars,  a  modest  and  beautiful  young  creature,  and  sister  to  one  of  his  brethren  of  the  Excise, 
watching  over  him  with  moist  eyes,  and  tending  him  with  the  care  of  a  daughter  ;  he  rewarded 
her  with  one  of  those  songs  which  are  an  insurance  against  forgetfulness.  The  lyrics  of  the  north 
have  nothing  finer  than  this  exquisite  stanza : — 

"Altho'  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 
Altho'  even  hope  is  denied, 
'Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 
Than  aught  in  the  world  beside." 

His  thoughts  as  he  lay  wandered  to  Charlotte  Hamilton,  and  he  dedicated  some  beautiful  stanzaj 
to  her  beauty  and  her  coldness,  beginning,  "Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks." 

It  was  a  sad  sight  to  see  the  poet  gradually  sinking ;  his  wife  in  hourly  expectation  of  her  sixth 
eonfinement,  and  his  four  helpless  children — a  daughter,  a  sweet  child,  had  died  the  year  before 
-with  no  one  of  their  lineage  to  soothe  them  with  kind  words  or  minister  to  their  wants.  Jessie 
Lewars,  with  equal  prudence  and  attention,  watched  over  them  all :  she  could  not  help  seeing 
that  the  thoughts  of  the  desolation  which  his  death  would  bring,  pressed  sorely  on  him,  for  he 
loved  his  children,  and  hoped  much  from  his  boys.  He  wrote  to  his  father-in-law,  .James  Armour, 
at  Mauchline,  that  he  was  dying,  his  wife  nigh  her  confinement,  and  begged  that  his  mother-in- 
law  would  hasten  to  them  and  speak  comfort.  He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  saying,  "  I  have  written 
to  you  so  often  without  receiving  any  answer  that  I  would  not  trouble  you  again,  but  for  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  I  am.  An  illness  which  has  long  hung  about  me  in  all  probability  will  speedily 
Bend  me  beyond  that  bourne  whence  no  traveller  returns.  Your  friendship,  with  which  for  many 
years  you  honoured  me,  was  a  friendship  dearest  to  my  soul :  your  conversation  and  your  corre- 
spondence were  at  once  highly  entertaining  and  instructive — with  what  pleasure  did  I  use  to 
break  up  the  seal !  The  remembrance  yet  adds  one  pulse  more  to  my  poor  palpitating  heart. 
Farewell!"  A  tremor  pervaded  his  frame;  his  tongue  grew  parched,  and  he  was  at  times 
delirious :  on  the  fourth  day  after  his  return,  when  his  attendant,  James  Maclure,  hsld  his  medi- 
cine to  his  lips,  he  swallowed  it  eagerly,  rose  almost  wholly  up,  spread  out  his  hands,  sprang 
forward  nigh  the  whole  length  of  the  bed,  fell  on  his  face,  and  expired.  He  died  on  the  21st  of 
July,  when  nearly  thirty-seven  years  and  seven  months  old. 

The  burial  of  Burns,  on  the  25th  of  July,  was  an  impressive  and  mournful  scene :  half  the 
people  of  Nithsdale  and  the  neighbouring  parts  of  Galloway  had  crowded  into  Dumfries,  to  see 
their  poet  "  mingled  with  the  earth,"  and  not  a  few  had  been  permitted  to  look  at  his  body,  laid 
nut  for  interment.  It  was  a  calm  and  beautiful  day,  and  as  the  body  was  borne  along  the  street 
towards  the  old  kirk-yard,  by  his  brethren  of  the  volunteers,  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the 
measured  step  and  the  solemn  music :  there  was  no  impatient  crushing,  no  fierce  elbowing — thi 


Ivi  LIFE   OF   EGBERT   BURNS. 

crowd  which  filled  the  street  seemed  conscious  what  they  were  now  losing  for  ever.  Even  whil« 
this  pageant  was  passing,  the  widow  of  the  poet  was  taken  in  labour ;  but  the  infant  born  in 
that  unhappy  hour  soon  shared  his  father's  grave.  On  reaching  the  northern  nook  of  the  kirk- 
yard,  where  the  grave  was  made,  the  mourners  halted ;  the  cofiBn  was  divested  of  the  mort-c^oth, 
and  silently  lowered  to  its  resting-place,  and  as  the  first  shovel-full  of  earth  fell  on  the  lid,  the 
volunteers,  too  agitated  to  be  steady,  justified  the  fears  of  the  poet,  by  three  ragged  volleys.  He 
who  now  writes  this  very  bi-ief  and  imperfect  account,  was  present:  he  thought  then,  as  he  thinks 
now,  that  all  the  military  array  of  foot  and  horse  did  not  harmonize  with  either  the  genius  or  the 
fortunes  of  the  poet,  and  that  the  tears  which  he  saw  on  many  cheeks  around,  as  the  earth  was 
replaced,  were  worth  all  the  splendour  of  a  show  which  mocked  with  unintended  mockery  the 
burial  of  the  poor  and  neglected  Burns.  The  body  of  the  poet  was,  on  the  5th  of  June,  1815, 
removed  to  a  more  commodious  spot  in  the  same  burial-ground — his  dark,  waving  locks  looked 
then  fresh  and  glossy — to  aff^ord  room  for  a  marble  monument,  which  embodies,  with  neither  skill 
nor  grace,  that  well-known  passage  in  the  dedication  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt: 
The  poetic  genius  of  my  country  found  me,  as  the  prophetic  bard,  Elijah,  did  Elisha,  at  the 
and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  me."  The  dust  of  the  bard  was  again  disturbed, 
when  the  body  of  Mrs.  Burns  was  laid,  in  April,  1834,  beside  the  remains  of  her  husband  :  his 
skull  was  dug  up  by  the  district  craniologists,  to  satisfy  their  minds  by  measurement  that  he  was 
equal  to  the  composition  of  "  Tam  o'  Shanter,"  or  "Mary  in  Heaven."  This  done,  they  placed 
the  skull  in  a  leaden  box,  "  carefully  lined  with  the  softest  materials,"  and  returned  it,  we  hope 
for  ever,  to  the  hallowed  ground. 

Thus  lived  and  died  Robert  Burns,  the  chief  of  Scottish  poets :  in  his  person  he  was  tall  and 
sinewy,  and  of  such  strength  and  activity,  thatf  Scott  alone,  of  all  the  poets  I  have  seen,  seemed 
his  equal :  his  forehead  was  broad,  his  hair  blaelr,  with  an  inclination  to  curl,  his  visage  uncom- 
monly swarthy,  his  eyes  large,  dark  and  lustrous,  and  his  voice  deep  and  manly.  His  sensibility 
was  strong,  his  passions  full  to  overflowing,  and  he  loved,  nay,  adored,  whatever  was  gentle  and 
beautiful.  He  had,  when  a  lad  at  the  plough,  an  eloquent  word  and  an  inspired  song  for  every 
fair  face  that  smiled  on  him,  and  a  sharp  sarcasm  or  a  fierce  lampoon  for  every  rustic  who 

»  thwarted  or  contradicted  him.  As  his  first  inspiration  came  from  love,  he  continued  through  life 
to  love  on,  and  was  as  ready  with  the  lasting  incense  of  the  muse  for  the  ladies  of  Nithsdale  as 
for  the  lasses  of  Kyle :  his  earliest  song  was  in  praise  of  a  young  girl  who  reaped  by  his  side, 
when  he  was  seventeen — his  latest  in  honour  of  a  lady  by  whose  side  he  had  wandered  and 
dreamed  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon.  He  was  of  a  nature  proud  and  suspicious,  and  towards  the 
/close  of  his  life  seemed  disposed  to  regard  all  above  him  in  rank  as  men  who  unworthily  possessed 
»  the  patrimony  of  genius ;  he  desired  to  see  the  order  of  nature  restored,  and  worth  and  talent  in 
precedence  of  the  base  or  the  dull.  He  had  no  medium  in  his  hatred  or  his  love  ;  he  never  spared 
the  stupid,  as  if  they  were  not  to  be  endured  because  he  was  bright ;  and  on  the  heads  of  the 
innocent  possessors  of  titles  or  wealth  he  was  ever  ready  to  shower  his  lampoons.  He  loved  to 
start  doubts  in  religion  which  he  knew  inspiration  only  could  solve,  and  he  spoke  of  Calvinism 
with  a  latitude  of  language  that  grieved  pious  listeners.  He  was  warm-hearted  and  generous  to 
a  degree,  above  all  men,  and  scorned  all  that  was  selfish  and  mean  with  a  scorn  quite  romantic. 
He  Avas  a  steadfast  friend  and  a  good  neighbour  :  while  he  lived  at  Ellisland  few  passed  his  door 
without  being  entertained  at  his  table ;  and  even  when  in  poverty,  on  the  iSlillhole-brae,  the  poor 
seldom  left  his  door  but  with  blessings  on  their  lips. 

Of  his  modes  of  study  he  has  himself  informed  us,  as  well  as  of  the  seasons  and  places  in 
which  he  loved  to  muse.  He  composed  while  he  strolled  along  the  secluded  banks  of  the  Doon, 
the  Ayr,  or  the  Nith ;  as  the  images  crowded  on  his  fancy  his  pace  became  quickened,  and  in 
his  highest  moods  he  was  excited  even  to  tears.  He  loved  the  winter  for  its  leafless  trees,  its 
swelling  ftoods,  ana  its  winds  which  swept  along  the  gloomy  sky,  with  frost  and  snow  on  their 
wings  ^  bit  he  loved  the  autumn  more — he  has  neglected  to  say  why — the  muse  was  then  more 
liberal Vaher  favours,  and  he  composed  with  a  happy  alacrity  unfelt  in  all  other  seasons.  He" 
filled  hiVmind  and  heart  with  the  materials  of  song — and  retired  from  gazing  on  woman's  beauty, 

L ^ 


HIS   GENIUS   AND   INSPIRATION.  Ivi. 


and  from  the  excitement  of  her  charms,  to  record  his  impreg^ions  in  verse,  as  a  painter  delineates 
on  his  canvas  the  looks  of  those  who  sit  to  his  pencil.  His  chief  place  of  study  at  Ellisland  is 
Btill  remembered :  it  extends  along  the  river-bank  towards  the  Isle :  there  the  neighbouring  gentry 
love  to  walk  and  peasants  to  gather,  and  hold  it  sacred,  as  the  place  where  he  composed  Tarn 
O'Sharter.  His  favourite  place  of  study  when  residing  in  Dumfries,  was  the  ruins  of  Lincluden 
College  made  classic  by  that  sublime  ode,  "  The  Vision,"  and  that  level  and  clovery  sward  con- 
tiguous tv  the  College,  on  the  northern  side  of  the  Nith :  the  latter  place  was  his  favourite  resort ; 
it  is  kn.>wn  now  by  the  name  of  Burns's  musing  ground,  and  there  he  conceived  many  of  his  latter 
lyrics.  In  case  of  interruption  he  completed  the  verses  at  the  fireside,  where  he  swung  to  and  fro 
in  his  arm-chair  till  the  task  was  done :  he  then  submitted  the  song  to  the  ordeal  of  bis  wife's 
roice,  which  was  both  sweet  and  clear,  and  while  she  sung  he  listened  attentively,  and  altered  or 
amended  till  the  whole  was  in  harmony,  music  and  words. 
The  genius  of  Burns  is  of  a  high  order:  in  brightness  of  expression  and  unsolicited  ease  and 
^atural  vehemence  of  language,  he  stands  in  the  first  rank  of  poets :  ifi  choice  of  subjects,  in 
Bappiness  of  conception,  and  loftiness  of  imagination, he  recedes  into  the  second.  He  owes  little 
If  his  fame  to  his  subjects,  for,  saving  the  beauty  of  a  few  ladies,  they  were  all  of  an  ordinary 
mnd  :  he  sought  neither  in  romance  nor  in  history  for  themes  to  the  muse;  he  took  up  topics 
from  life  around  which  were  familiar  to  all,  and  endowed  them  with  character,  with  passion,  with 
tenderness,  with  humour — elevating  all  that  he  touched  into  the  regions  of  poetry  and  morals; 
He  went  to  no  far  lands  for  the  purpose  of  surprising  us  with  wonders,  neither  did  he  go  to 
crowns  or  coronets  to  attract  the  stare  of  the  peasantry  around  him,  by  things  wliich  to  them 
were  as  a  book  shut  and  sealed :  "  The  Daisy"  grew  on  the  lands  which  he  ploughed  ;  "  The 
Mouse"  built  her  frail  nest  on  his  own  stubble-field ;  '♦  The  Haggis*'  reeked  on  his  own  table ; 
•*  The  Scotch  Drink"  of  which  he  sang  was  the  produce  of  a  neighbouring  still;  "  The  Twa  Dogs," 
which  conversed  so  wisely  and  wittily,  were,  one  of  them  at  least,  his  own  collies ;  "  The  Vision" 
is  but  a  picture,  and  a  brilliant  one,  of  his  own  hopes  and  fears  ;  "  Tarn  Samson"  was  a  friend 
whom  he  loved ;  "  Doctor  Hornbook"  a  neighbouring  pedant ;  *'  Matthew  Henderson"  a  social 
captain  on  half-pay;  *'  The  Scotch  Bard"  who  had  gone  to  the  West  Indies  was  Burns  himself; 
the  heroine  of  "The  Lament"  was  Jean  Armour  ;  and  "Tam  O'Shanter"  a  facetious  farmer  of 
Kyle,  who  rode  late  and  loved  pleasant  company,  nay,  even  "  The  Dcil"  himself,  whom  he  had 
the  hardihood  to  address,  was  a  being  whose  eldrich  croon  had  alarmed  the  devout  matrons  of 
Kyle,  and  had  wandered,  not  unseen  by  the  bard  himself,  among  the  lonely  glens  of  the  Doou. 
jrt-^urns  was  one  of  the  first  to  teach  the  world  that  high  moral  poetry  resided  in  the  humblest 
I  subjects:  whatever  he  touched  became  elevated;  his  spirit  possessed  and  inspired  the  commonest 
^4^topJcs,  and  endowed  them  with  life  and  beauty. 

His  songs  have  all  the  beauties  and  but  few  of  them  the  faults  of  his  poems :  they  flow  to  the 
msic  as  readily  as  if  both  air  and  words  came  into  the  world  together.  The  sentiments  are 
ytrom.  nature,  they  are  rarely  strained  or  forced,  and  the  words  dance  in  their  places  and  echo  the 
music  in  its  pastoral  sweetness,  social  glee,  or  in  the  tender  and  the  moving.  He  seems  always 
to  write  with  woman's  eye  upon  him:  he  is  gentle,  persuasive  and  impassioned :  he  appears  to 
watch  her  looks,  and  pours  out  his  praise  or  his  complaint  according  to  the  changeful  moods  of 
her  mind.  He  looks  on  her,  too,  with  a  sculptor's  as  well  as  a  poet's  eye :  to  him  who  works  in 
marble,  the  diamonds,  emeralds,  pearls,  and  elaborate  ornaments  of  gold,  but  load  and  injure 
the  harmony  of  proportion,  the  grace  of  form,  and  divinity  of  sentiment  of  his  nymph  or  his 
goddess — so  with  Burns  the  fashion  of  a  lady's  boddice,  the  lustre  of  her  satins,  or  the  sparkle 
of  her  diamonds,  or  other  finery  with  which  Wealth  or  taste  has  loaded  her,  are  neglected  as  idle 
frippery ;  while  her  beauty,  her  form,  or  her  mind,  matters  which  are  of  nature  and  not  of 
fashion,  are  remembered  and  praised.  He  is  none  of  the  millinery  bards,  who  deal  in  scented 
silks,  spider-net  laces,  rare  gems,  set  in  rarer  workmanship,  and  who  shower  diamonds  and 
pearls  by  the  bushel  on  a  lady's  locks:  he  makes  bright  eyes,  flushing  cheeks,  the  magic  of 
the  tongue,  and  the  "pulses'  maddening  play"  perform  all.  His  songs  are,  in  general,  pas- 
Itoral  pictures:  he  seldom  finishes  a  portrait  of  female  beauty  without  enclosing  it  in  a  natural/ 
i^ame-work  of  waving  woods,  running  streams,  the  melody  of  birds,  and  the  lights  of  heaven.! 


iviii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


91 


Those  who  desire  to  feel  Burns  in  all  his  force,  must  seek  some  summer  glen,  when  a  country  girl 
searches  among  his  many  songs  for  one  -which  sympathizes  with  her  own  heart,  and  gives  it  full 
terance,  till  wood  and  vale  is  filled  with  the  melody.     It  is  remarkable  that  the  most  naturally 
legant  and  truly  impassioned  songs  in  our  literature  were  written  by  a  ploughman  in  honour  of 
the  rustic  lasses  around  him. 
I    His  poetry  is  all  life  and  energy,  and  bears  the  impress  of  a  warm  heart  and  a  clear  under- 
■Btanding :  it  abounds  with  passions  and  opinions — vivid  pictures  of  rural  happiness  and  the  rap- 
l^res  of  successful  love,  all  fresh  from  nature  and  observation,  and  not  as  they  are  seen  through 
I  the  spectacles  of  books.     The  wit  of  the  clouted  shoe  is  there  without  its  coarseness :  there  is  a 
■  prodigality  of  humour  without  licentiousness,  a  pathos  ever  natural  and  manly,  a  social  joy  akin 
sometimes  to  sadness,  a  melancholy  not  unallied  to  mirth,  and  a  sublime  morality  which  seeks  to 
elevate  and  soothe.     To  a  love  of  man  he  added  an  aflFection  for  the  flowers  of  the  valley,  the 
fowls  of  the  air,  and  the  beasts  of  the  field :  he  perceived  the  tie  of  social  sympathy  which  united 
animated  with  unanimated  nature,  and  in  many  of  his  finest  poems  most  beautifully  he  has 
enforced  it.     His  thoughts  are  original  and  his  style  new  and  unborrowed  :  all  that  he  has  written 
is  distinguished  by  a  happy  carelessness,  a  bounding  elasticity  of  spirit,  and  a  singular  felicity 
of  expression,  simple  yet  inimitable ;  he  is  familiar  yet  dignified,  careless,  yet  correct,  and  con- 
cise, yet  clear  and  full.     All  this  and  much  more  is  embodied  in  the  language  of  humble  life — a 
dialect  reckoned  barbarous  by  scholars,  but  which,  coming  from  the  lips  of  inspiration,  becomes 
classic  and  elevated. 

The  prose  of  this  great  poet  has  much  of  the  original  merit  of  his  verse,  but  it  is  seldom  so 
natural  and  so  sustained :  it  abounds  with  fine  outflashings  and  with  a  genial  warmth  and  vigour, 
but  it  is  defaced  by  false  ornament  and  by  a  eonstant  anxiety  to  say  fine  and  forcible  things.  He 
eeems  not  to  know  that  simplicity  was  as  rare  and  as  needful  a  beauty  in  prose  as  in  verse ;  he 
covets  the  pauses  of  Sterne  and  the  point  and  antithesis  of  Junius,  like  one  who  believes  that  to 
write  prose  well  he  must  be  ever  lively,  ever  pointed,  and  ever  smart.  Yet  the  account  which  he 
wrote  of  himself  to  Dr.  Moore  is  one  of  the  most  spirited  and  natural  narratives  in  the  language, 
and  composed  in  a  style  remote  from  the  strained  and  groped-for  witticisms  and  put-on  sensibili- 
ties of  many  of  his  letters: — "Simple,"  as  John  Wilson  says,  "we  may  well  call  it;  rich  in 
fancy,  overflowing  in  feeling,  and  dashed  off  in  every  other  paragraph  with  the  easy  boldness  of 
a  great  master." 


PREFACE. 


[The  first  edition,  printed  at  Kilmarnock,  July,  1786,  by  John  Wilson,  bore  on  the  title-page 
these  simple  words: — "Poems,  chiefly  in  the  Scottisli  Dialect,  by  Kobert  Burns;"  the  following 
mDtto,  marked  "Anonymous,"  but  evidently  the  poet's  own  composition,  was  more  ambitious: — 

**  The  simple  Bard,  unbroke  by  rules  of  art. 
He  pours  the  wild  effusions  of  the  heart : 
And  if  inspired,  'tis  nature's  pow'rs  inspire — 
Hers  all  the  melting  thrill,  and  hers  the  kindling  fire."] 

* 

The  following  trifles  are  not  the  production  of  the  Poet,  who,  with  all  the  advantages 
3f  learned  art,  and  perhaps  amid  the  elegancies  and  idlenesses  of  upper  life,  looks  down 
for  a  rural  theme  with  an  eye  to  Theocritus  or  Virgil.  To  the  author  of  this,  these,  and 
other  celebrated  names  their  countrymen,  are,  at  least  in  their  original  language, 
a  fountain  shut  upj  and  a  hooJc  sealed.  Unacquainted  with  the  necessary  requisites  for 
commencing  poet  by  rule,  he  sings  the  sentiments  and  manners  he  felt  and  saw  in  him- 
self and  his  rustic  compeers  around  him  in  his  and  their  native  language.  Though  a 
rhymer  from  his  earliest  years,  at  least  from  the  earliest  impulse  of  the  softer  passions, 
it  was  not  till  very  lately  that  the  applause,  perhaps  the  partiality,  of  friendship 
awakened  his  vanity  so  far  as  to  make  him  think  anything  of  his  worth  showing :  and 
none  of  the  following  works  were  composed  with  a  view  to  the  press.  To  amuse  himself 
with  the  little  creations  of  his  own  fancy,  amid  the  toil  and  fatigue  of  a  laborious  life } 
to  transcribe  the  various  feelings — the  loves,  the  griefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears — in  his  own 
breast ;  to  find  some  kind  of  counterpoise  to  the  struggles  of  a  world,  always  an  alien 
Bcene,  a  task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind — these  were  his  motives  for  courting  th9 
Muses,  and  in  these  he  found  poetry  to  be  its  own  reward. 

Now  that  he  appears  in  the  public  character  of  an  author,  he  does  it  with  fear  and 
trembling.  So  dear  is  fame  to  the  rhyming  tribe,  that  even  he,  an  obscure,  nameless 
Bard,  shrinks  aghast  at  the  thought  of  being  branded  as — an  impertinent  blockhead; 

(59) 


hi  PREFACE   TO   THE   FIRST  EDITION. 

cbtrufUng  his  nonsense  on  the  world;  and,  because  he  can  make  a  shift  to  jingle  a  fe^l 
doggerel  Scotch  rhymes  together,  looking  upon  himself  as  a  poet  of  no  small  conse- 
quence, forsooth ! 

It  is  an  observation  of  that  celebrated  poet,  Shenstone,  whose  divine  elegies  do  honou;^ 
to  our  language,  our  nation,  and  our  species,  that  "  Humiliti/  has  depressed  many  a 
jxoiiius  to  a  hermit,  but  never  raised  one  to  fame  !"  If  any  critic  catches  at  the  word 
(/cuius,  the  author  tells  him,  once  for  all,  that  he  certainly  looks  upon  himself  as  pos- 
sessed of  some  poetic  abilities,  otherwise  his  publishing  in  the  manner  he  has  done 
would  be  a  manoeuvre  below  the  worst  character,  which,  he  hopes,  his  worst  enemy  will 
ever  give  him.  But  to  the  genius  of  a  Ramsay,  or  the  glorious  dawnings  of  the  poor, 
unfortunate  Fergusson,  he,  with  equal  unaffected  sincerity,  declares,  that  even  in  hia 
highest  pulse  of  vanity,  he  has  not  the  most  distant  pretensions.  These  two  justly- 
admired  Scotch  poets  he  has  often  had  in  his  eye  in  the  following  pieces,  but  rather  with 
a  view  to  kindle  at  their  flame,  than  for  servile  imitation. 

To  his  Subscribers,  the  Author  returns  his  most  sincere  thanks.  Not  the  mercenary 
bow  over  a  counter,  but  the  heart-throbbing  gratitude  of  the  Bard,  conscious  how  much 
he  owes  to  benevolence  and  friendship  for  gratifying  him,  if  he  deserves  it,  in  that 
dearest  wish  of  every  poetic  bosom — to  be  distinguished.  He  begs  his  readers,  particu- 
larly the  learned  and  the  polite,  who  maj-  honour  him  with  a  perusal,  that  they  will  make 
every  allowance  for  education  and  circumstances  of  ll*^e;  but  if,  after  a  fair,  candid,  and 
impartial  criticism,  he  shall  stand  convicted  of  dulnesfc  and  nonsense,  let  him  be  done 
by  as  he  would  in  that  case  do  by  others — let  him  be  condemned,  without  mercy,  tc 
contempt  and  oblivion. 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OP 

ROBEET    BUENS. 


WINTER. 


[Vhis  ia  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  ^xjrt's  rocorded  com- 
positions :  it  was  written  befcie  tke  death  of  his  father, 
and  is  called  by  Gilbert  Burns,  '  a  juvenile  production.' 
To  walk  by  a  river  whila  flooded,  or  through  a  wood  on 
a  rough  winter  day,  »nd  hear  the  storm  howling  among 
the  le;ifless  trees,  exalted  the  poet's  thoughts.  "  In  such 
a  season,"  he  said,  <  just  after  a  train  of  misfortunes,  1 
composed  Winter,  a  Dirge.''] 

The  wintrv  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  bail  and  rain  does  blaw ; 
Or  tbo  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 

The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw ; 
•ybile  tumbling  brown,  the  burn  comes  down, 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae ; 
And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest, 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

"The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o'er'^ftst,"' 

The  joyless  winter  day 
Let  others  fear,  to  me  more  df  ar 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May : 
T!ie  tempest's  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul. 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join ; 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine ! 

Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil. 
Here,  firm,  I  rest,  they  must  be  best, 

Because  tbey  are  Thy  will ! 
Then  all  I  want  (0,  do  thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine !) 
Since  to  enjoy  Thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resign ! 

1  Dr.  Young. 


n. 


DEATH    AND    DYING    WORDS 


POOR  MAILIE, 

THE    author's   only    PET   YOWE. 

AN   UNCO   MOURNFU'   TALK. 

[This  tale  is  partly  true ;  the  poet's  pet  ewe  got 
entangled  m  her  tether,  and  tumbled  into  a  ditch  ;  the 
face  of  ludicrous  and  awkward  sorrow  with  which  this 
w^as  related  by  Hughoc,  the  herd-boy,  amused  Burns  pc^ 
much,  who  was  on  his  way  to  the  plough,  that  he  imme- 
diately composed  the  poem,  and  repeated  it  to  his  hrotho; 
Gilbert  when  they  met  in  the  evening;  the  field  where 
the  poet  held  the  plough,  and  the  ditch  into  which  pw.f 
Mailie  fell,  are  still  pointed  out.] 

As  Mailie,  an'  her  lambs  thegither, 
Were  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether. 
Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a  hitch, 
An'  owre  she  warsl'd  in  the  ditch : 
There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie, 
When  Hughoc*  he  cam  doytin  by. 
Wi'  glowing  e'en  an'  lifted  ban's, 
Poor  Hughoc  like  a  statue  stan's ; 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 
But,  waes  my  heart !  he  could  na  mend  it ' 
He  gaped  wide  but  naething  spak — 
At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

**  0  thou,  whose  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu'  easel 
My  dying  words  attentive  hear. 
An'  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 

"Tell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep 
As  muckle  gear  as  buy  a  sheep, 
0  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi'  wicked  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair ! 


s  A  neibor  herd-callan. 


cm 


■    «lt  »J  ltl»  '■  I  ■     I  I 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Put  ca'  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 
Au'  let  them  wander  at  their  will ; 
So  may  his  flock  increase,  and  grow 
To  scores  o'  lambs,  an'  packs  of  woo' ! 

*'  Tell  him  he  was  a  master  kin' 
An*  ay  was  gude  to  me  an'  mine ; 
An'  now  my  dying  charge  I  gie  him, 
My  helpless  lambs,  I  trust  them  wi'  him. 

*'  0,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives 
Frae  dogs,  and  tods,  an'  butchers'  knives . 
But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 
Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel ; 
An'  tent  them  duly,  e'en  an'  morn, 
Wi'  teats  o'  hay,  an'  ripps  o'  corn. 

"  An'  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  ither  vile,  wanrestfu'  pets  ! 
To  sink  thro'  slaps,  an'  reave  an'  steal 
At  stacks  o'  pease,  or  stocks  o'  kail. 
So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears. 
For  monie  a  year  come  thro'  the  sheers ; 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o'  bread. 
An'  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they're  dead 

"  My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  an'  heir, 
0,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi'  care ; 
An'  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast. 
To  pit  some  havins  in  his  breast ! 
An'  warn  him  what  I  winna  name. 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowes  at  hame 
An'  no  to  rin  an'  wear  his  cloots, 
Like  ither  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 

"  An'  niest  my  yowie,  silly  thing, 
Gude  keep  thee  frae  a  tether  string! 
0,  may  thou  ne'er  forgather  up 
Wi'  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop. 
But  ay  keep  mind  to  moop  an'  mell 
Wi'  sheep  o'  credit  like  thysel ! 

"  And  now,  my  bairns,  wi'  my  last  breath 
T  lea'e  my  blessin  wi'  you  baith: 
An'  when  you  think  upo'  your  mither, 
Mind  to  be  kind  to  ane  anither. 

"  Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail 
To  tell  my  master  a'  my  tale ; 
An'  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether, 
An',  for  thy  pains,  thou'se  get  my  blather." 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn'd  her  head, 
And  clos'd  her  een  amang  the  dead. 


ni. 


POOR  MAILIE'S  ELEGY. 

[Burns,  when  he  calls  on  the  hards  of  Ayr  and  Doo» 
to  join  in  the  lament  for  Muilie,  intimntes  that  he  regards 
himself  as  a  poet.  Hogg  calls  it  a  very  elegnnt  morsel : 
but  says  th,U  it  resembles  too  closely  "  The  Ewie  and  the 
Crooked  Horn,"  to  be  admired  as  original :  the  shepiierd 
might  have  remembered  that  they  both  resemble  Sempill'i 
"  Life  and  death  of  tlie  Piper  of  Kilbarchan."] 

Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 

Wi'  saut  tears  trickling  down  your  nose ; 

Our  bardie's  fate  is  at  a  close, 

Past  a'  remead; 
The  last  sad  cape-stane  of  his  woes  ; 

Poor  Mailie's  dead. 

It's  no  the  loss  o'  warl's  gear, 
That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear. 
Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed; 
He's  lost  a  friend  and  neebor  dear, 

Li  Mailie  dead. 

Thro'  a'  the  toun  she  trotted  by  him  ; 
A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him ; 
Wi'  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him. 

She  ran  wi'  speed  : 
A  friend  mair  faithfu'  ne'er  cam  nigh  him, 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

I  wat  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense. 
An'  could  behave  hersel  wi'  mense : 
ril  say't,  she  never  brak  a  fence. 

Thro'  thievish  greed. 
Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence 

Sin'  Mailie's  dead , 

Or,  if  he  wonders  up  the  howe. 

Her  living  image  in  her  yowe 

Comes  bleating  to  him,  owre  the  knowe. 

For  bits  o'  bread ; 
An'  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe 

For  Mailie  dead! 

She  was  nae  get  o'  moorland  tips,' 
Wi'  tawted  ket,  an  hairy  hips ; 


1  VARIATION. 

'  She  was  nae  get  o'  runted  rams, 
Wi'  woo'  like  goats  an'  legs  like  trams; 
She  was  the  flower  o'  Faiilie  lambs, 

A  famous  breed  I 
Now  Robin,  greetin,  chews  the  hams 
O'  Mailie  dead.' 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                         63 

For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships 

How  best  o'  chiels  are  whiles  in  want. 

Frae  yont  the  Tweed : 

"While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rant 

Abonnierfleesh  ne'er  cross'd  the  clips 

And  ken  na  how  to  wair't ; 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

But  Davie,  lad,  ne'er  fash  your  head. 

Tho'  we  hae  little  gear, 

Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 

"We're  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread, 

That  vi^e,  w<inchancie  thing — a  rape  ! 

As  lang's  we're  hale  and  ficr : 

It  makft  £;'aid  fellows  girn  an'  gape, 

"  Mair  spier  na,  nor  fear  na,"* 

Wi'  chokin  dread ; 

Auld  age  ne'er  mind  a  feg. 

An*  Robin'ri  bonnet  wave  wi'  crape, 

The  last  o't,  the  warst  o't, 

For  Mailie  dead. 

Is  only  but  to  beg. 

0,  a'  J  e  bards  or  bonnie  Doon  ! 

III. 

An'  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune' 

Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 

0'  Robin's  reed ! 

To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e'en 

"VMien  banes  are  craz'd,  and  bluid  is  thin, 

ms  heart  will  never  get  aboon ! 

Is,  doubtless,  great  distress  ! 

His  Mailie's  dead! 

Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest ; 

Ev'n  then,  sometimes  we'd  snatch  a  taste 

0'  truest  happiness. 
The  honest  heart  that's  free  frae  a' 

Intended  fraud  or  guile. 

IV. 

However  Fortune  kick  the  ba', 

Has  ay  some  cause  to  smile : 

FIRST  EPISTLE   TO   DAVIE, 

And  mind  still,  you'll  find  ^11, 
A  comfort  this  nae  sm# ; 

A   BROTHER   POET. 

Nae  mair  then,  we'll  care  then. 

[In  the  summer  of  1784,  Burns,  while  at  work  in  the 

Nae  farther  we  can  fa' 

B^arden,  repeated  this  Epistle  to  his  brother  Gilbert,  who 

was  much  pleased  with  the  performnnce,  which  he  con- 

#          lY. 

sidered  equal  if  not  superior  to  some  of  Allan  Ramsay's 

Epistles,  and  said  if  it  were  printed  he  had  no  doubt  that 

"What  tho',  like  commoners^^air, 

It  would  be  well  received  by  people  of  taste.] 

"We  wander  out  we  know  n^^here, 

—  January/,  [1784.] 

But  either  house  or  hall^^ 

/Vet  nature's  cjiarms,  the  hills  and  woo'!s, ) 

I. 

/  The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods,/ 

While  winds  frae  aff  Ben-Lomond  blaw, 

'      Are  free  alike  to  all. 

And  bar  the  doors  wi'  driving  snaw, 

In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground. 

And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 

And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 

I  set  me  down  to  pass  the  time, 

"With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound 

And  spin  a  verse  or  twa  o'  rhyme, 

To  see  the  coming  year : 

In  hamely  westlin  jingle. 

On  braes  when  we  please,  then, 

"While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

We'll  sit  and  sowth  a  tune ; 

Ben  to  the  chimla  lug, 

Syne  rhyme  till't  we'll  time  till't, 

[  grudge  a  wee  the  great  folks'  gift. 

And  sing't  when  we  hae  done. 

That  live  sae  bien  an'  snug : 

I  tent  less  and  want  less 

V. 

Their  roomy  fire-side ; 

At's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank ; 

But  hanker  and  canker 

I  It's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank, 

To  see  their  cursed  pride. 

^     To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 

It's  no  in  makin  muckle  mair ;    . 

II. 

It's  no  in  books,  it's  no  in  lear. 

It's  hardly  in  a  body's  power 

To  make  us  truly  blest ; 

To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  sour, 
To  see  how  things  are  shar'd ; 

1  Ramaay. 

64 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And, centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
But  never  can  be  blest: 

Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures. 
Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 
The  heart  ay's  the  part  ay 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 


Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wha  drudge  and  drive  thro'  wet  an'  dry, 

Wi'  never-ceasing  toil; 
Think  ye,  are  we  less  blest  than  they, 
Wha  scarcely  tent  us  in  their  way. 

As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 
Alas  !  how  aft,  in  haughty  mood 
God's  creatures  they  oppress  ! 
Or  else,  neglecting  a'  that's  guid, 
They  riot  in  excess ! 
Baith  careless  and  fearless 
Of  either  heaven  or  hell ! 
Esteeming  and  deeming 
a'  an  idle  tale ! 


Wi 


Then  let  us  cheerfu'  acquiesce  ; 
Nor  make  our  scanty  plea^te*es  less. 

By  pining  at  our  state  ; 
And,  even  |^^ld  misfortunes  come, 
I,  here  wh JJr  hae  met  wi'  some, 

An's  thankfu'  for  them  yet. 
They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth ; 

They  let  us  ken  oursel' ; 
They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth, 
The  real  guid  and  ill. 
Tho'  losses,  and  crosses, 

Be  lessons  right  severe, 
There's  wit  there,  ye'll  get  there, 
Ye'll  find  nae  other  where. 


But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o'  hearts ! 

(To  say  aught  less  wad  wrang  the  cartes. 

And  flatt'ry  I  detest,) 
This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I ; 
And  joys  that  riches  ne'er  could  buy: 

And  joys  the  very  bjest. 
There's  a'  the  pleasures  o'  the  heart, 

The  lover  an'  the  frien' ; 
Te  hae  your  Meg  your  dearest  part, 

And  I  my  darling  Jean ! 


It  warms  me,  it  charms  me, 
To  mention  but  her  name : 

It  heats  me,  it  beets  me, 
And  sets  me  a'  on  flame ! 


0,  all  ye  pow'rs  who  rule  above  ! 
0,  Thou,  whose  very  self  art  love  ! 
Thou  know'st  my  words  sincere  ! 
The  life-blood  streaming  thro'  my  heart, 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part. 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear ! 
When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest. 
Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 
Thou  Being,  All-seeing, 

0  hear  my  fervent  pray'r ! 
Still  take  her,  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care  I 


All  hail,  ye  tender  feelings  dear ! 
The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear. 

The  sympathetic  glow  ! 
Long  since,  this  world's  thorny  ways 
Had  number'd  out  my  weary  days. 

Had  it  not  been  for  you! 
Fate  still  has  blest  me  with  a  friend, 

In  every  care  and  ill ; 
And  oft  a  more  endearing  band, 
A  tie  more  tender  still. 
It  lightens,  it  brightens 

The  tenebrific  scene. 
To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean ! 


0,  how  that  name  inspires  my  style 
The  words  come  skelpin,  rank  and  file, 

Amaist  before  I  ken  ! 
The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine. 
As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 

Were  glowrin  owre  my  pen. 
My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  limp, 

'Till  ance  he's  fairly  het; 
And  then  he'll  hilch,  and  stilt,  and  jimp, 
An'  rin  an  unco  fit: 

But  least  then,  the  beast  then 

Should  rue  this  hasty  ride, 
I'll  light  now,  and  dight  now 
His  sweaty,  wizened  hide. 


Hale  iDeyaiir  lieart.liale  he  yoxtr  fiddle, 
Lang  may  ju\xt  elbow- jink  and  diddle, 
To  cheer  you  thro'  the  weaary  ividdle 

0'  "ssaxly  cares 
Till  bairns    Larns  londiy  cuddle 

Your  anldgray  hairs 


OF   EGBERT   BURNS. 


65 


V. 

SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A   BROTHER   POET. 

[David  Sillar,  to  whom  these  epistles  are  addressed, 
was  at  that  time  mnster  of  a  country  school,  and  was 
welcome  to  Burns  both  as  ascliolarand  awriter  of  verse. 
This  epistle  lie  prefixed  to  his  poems  printed  at  Kilmar- 
nock in  the  ye:ir  1789  :  he  loved  to  speak  of  his  early 
comrade,  and  supplied  Walker  with  some  very  valuable 
anecdotes :  he  died  one  of  the  mngistrates  of  Irvine,  on 
the  2d  of  May,  1&30,  at  the  age  of  seventy.] 

AULD    NIBOR, 

I'm  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor, 
For  your  auld-farrent,  frien'ly  letter  ; 
Tho'  I  maun  say't,  I  doubt  ye  flatter, 

Ye  speak  sae  fair. 
For  my  puir,  silly,  rhymin  clatter 

Some  less  maun  sair. 

rfale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle  ; 
Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  and  diddle. 
To  cheer  you  thro'  the  weary  widdle 

0'  war'ly  cares, 
Till  bairn's  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

Your  auld,  gray  hairs. 

But  Davte,  lad,  I'm  red  ye're  glaikit; 
I'm  tauld  the  Muse  ye  hae  uegleckit ; 
An'  gif  it's  sae,  ye  sud  be  licket 

Until  ye  fyke ; 
Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne'er  be  faiket. 

Be  hain't  wha  like. 

For  me,  I'm  on  Parnassus'  brink, 

Rivin'  the  words  to  gar  them  clink  ; 

Whyles  daez't  wi*  love,  whyles  daez't  wi'  drink, 

Wi'  jads  or  masons  ; 
An'  whyles,  but  ay  owre  late,  I  think 

Braw  sober  lessons. 

Of  a'  the  thoughtless  sons  o'  man, 
Commen'  me  to  the  Bardie  clan  ; 
Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 

0'  rhymin'  clink, 
The  devil-haet,  that  I  sud  ban, 

They  ever  think. 

Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o'  livin', 
Nae  cares  to  gie  us  joy  or  grievin* ; 
But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nieve  in, 

An'  while  ought's  there. 
Then  hiltie  skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin', 

An'  fash  nae  mair. 


Leeze  me  on  rhyme !  it's  aye  a  treasure, 
My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure. 
At  hame,  a-fiel',  at  wark,  or  leisure. 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie ' 
Tho'  rough  an'  raploch  be  her  measure, 

She's  seldom  lazy. 

Hand  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie : 
The  warl'  may  play  you  monie  a  shavie ; 
But  for  the  Muse  she'll  never  leave  ye, 

Tho'  e'er  so  puir, 
Na,  even  tho*  limpin'  wi'  the  spavie 

Frae  door  to  door. 


VI. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE  DEIL 

"  O  Prince !  O  Chief  of  many  throned  Pow'rs, 
That  led  th'  embattled  Seraphim  to  war." 

MlLTOK 

[The  beautiful  and  relenting  spirit  in  which  this  fine 
poem  finishes  moved  the  heart  of  one  of  the  coldest  of 
our  critics.  "  It  was,  I  think,"  says  Gilbert  Burns,  "  in 
tne  wmter  of  1784,  as  we  were  going  with  carts  for  coals 
to  the  family  fire,  and  I  could  yet  point  out  the  particulai 
spot,  that  Robert  first  repeated  to  me  the  'Address  to 
the  Deil.'  The  idea  of  the  address  was  suggested  to 
him  by  running  over  in  his  mind  the  many  ludicrous 
accounts  we  have  of  that  august  personage."] 

0  THOU  1  whatever  title  suit  thee, 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an'  sootie, 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches  ! 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie. 

E'en  to  a  deil, 
To  skelp  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me. 

An'  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  pow'r,  an'  great  thy  fame;  1^ 
Far  kend  an'  noted  is  thynnrnri;      ^ 
An'  tho'  yon  lowin  heuglTsthy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far ; 
An*,  faith  I  thou's  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scai#? 

Whyles,  ranging  like  a  roaring  lion, 
For  prey,  a'  holes  an'  corners  tryin ; 
Whyles,  on  the  strong-winged  tempest  fljin. 
Tirlin  the  kirks ; 


C6 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


Whiles,  it  the  human  bosom  pryin, 
Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I've  heard  my  reverend  Grannie  say, 
In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray ; 
Or  -where  auld-ruin'd  castles,  gray, 

Ned  to  the  moon, 
f  e  fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way 

\Vi'  eldricht  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  Grannie  summon. 
To  say  her  prayers,  douce,  honest  woman ! 
Aft  yont  the  dyke  she's  heard  you  bummin, 

Wi'  eerie  drone ; 
Or,  rustlin,  thro'  the  boortries  comin, 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night, 

The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin  light, 

Wi'  you,  mysel,  I  gat  a  fright 

Ayont  the  lough ; 
Ye,  like  a  rash-buss,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sough. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake. 
Each  bristl'd  hair  stood  like  a  stake. 
When  wi'  an  eldritch,  stoor  quaick — quaick- 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa  ye  squatter'd,  like  a  drake, 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  an'  wither'd  hags, 
Tell  how  wi'  you,  on  rag  weed  nags. 
They  skim  the  muirs  an'  dizzy  crags, 

Wi'  wicked  speed; 
And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues 

Owre  howkit  dead. 

Thence  countra  wives,  wi'  toil  an'  pain, 
May  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain : 
For,  oh !  the  yellow  treasure's  taen 
By  witching  skill  ; 
An'  dawtit,  twal-pint  hawkie's  gaea 
•»  As  yell's  the  bill. 

Thence  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse 

On  young  guidmen,  fond,  keen,  an'  crouse ; 

When  the  best  wark-lume  i'  the  house, 

•  By  cantrip  wit. 

Is  insiant  made  nd  worth  a  louse. 

Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 
An'  float  the  jinglin  icy-boord. 


Then  water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord. 
By  your  direction ; 

An'  nighted  trav'llers  are  allur'd 

To  their  destruction. 

An'  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an'  drunk  is. 
The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkeys 

Delude  his  eyes. 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

When  masons'  mystic  word  an'  grip 
In  storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell ! 
The  youngest  brother  ye  wad  whip 

AflF  straught  to  hell ! 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonie  yard. 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd. 
An'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd. 

The  raptur'd  hour, 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant,  flow'ry  sward. 

In  shady  bow'r : 

Then  you,  ye  auld,  snick-drawing  dog  I 

Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog. 

An'  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

(Black  be  your  fa' !) 
An'  gied  the  infant  world  a  shog, 

'Maist  ruin'd  a'. 

D'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz, 
Wi'  reekit  duds,  an'  reestit  gizz, 
Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz 

'Mang  better  folk. 
An'  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uzz 

Your  spitefu'  joke  ? 

An'  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall. 
An'  brak  him  out  o'  house  an'  hall. 
While  scabs  an'  botches  did  him  gall, 

Wi'  bitter  claw. 
An'  lows'd  his  ill  tongu'd,  wicked  scawl, 

Was  warst  ava  ? 

But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse. 
Your  wily  snares  an'  fechtin  fierce, 
Sin'  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a'  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An'  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye're  thinkin, 
A  certain  Bardie's  rantin,  drinkin, 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


67 


Bome  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin 
To  your  black  pit ; 

But,  faith !  he'll  turn  a  corner  jinkin, 
An'  cheat  you  yet. 

But  fare  ye  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben! 
0  wad  ye  tak  a  tbought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might-      iinna  ken — 

Suil  hae  a  stake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake  I 


vn. 

THE  AULD  FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR   MORNING    SALUTATION   TO   HIS 

AULD  MARE  MAGGIE, 

ON   GIVIIfG  HER   THE    ACCUSTOMED   EIPP   OF   CORN    TO 
HANSEL    IN   THE   NEW   TEAR. 

["Whenever  Burns  has  occasion,"  says  Hogg,  "to 
address  or  mention  any  subordinate  being,,  however 
mean,  even  a  mouse  or  a  flower,  then  the'e  is  a  gentle 
pathos  in  it  that  awakens  the  finest  feelings  of  the  heart." 
Tlie  Auld  Farmer  of  Kyle  has  the  spirit  of  a  knight- 
errant,  and  loves  his  mare  according  to  the  rules  of 
chivalry;  and  well  he  might:  she  carried  him  safely 
home  from  markets,  triumphantly  from  wedding-brooses  ; 
she  ploughed  the  stiffest  land ;  faced  the  steepest  brae, 
and,  moreover,  bore  home  his  bonnie  bride  with  a  con- 
Bciousness  of  the  loveliness  of  the  load.] 

A  QUID  New-year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie ! 
Hae,  there's  a  rip  to  thy  auld  baggie : 
Tho'  thou's  howe-backit,  now,  an'   knaggie, 

I've  seen  the  day 
Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  onie  staggie 

Out-owre  the  lay. 

Tho'  now  thou's  dowie,  stiflF,  an'  crazy, 
An'  thy  auld  hide  as  white's  a  daisy, 
I've  seen  thee  dappl't,  sleek,  and  glaizie, 

A  bonny  gray : 
He  should  been  tight  that  daur't  to  raize  thee, 

Ance  in  a  day. 

Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rank, 
A  filly,  buirdly,  steeve,  an'  swank. 
An  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank, 

As  e'er  tread  yird ; 
in'  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a  stank, 

Like  ony  bird. 

It's  now  some  nine-an'-twenty  year, 
■^in'  thou  was  my  guid-father's  Meere; 


He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher  clear, 

An'  fifty  mark ; 
Tho'  it  was  sma',  'twas  weel-won  gear, 

An'  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 
Ye  then  was  trottin  wi'  your  minnie : 
Tho'  ye  was  trickle,  slee,  an'  funny. 

Ye  ne'er  was  donsie: 
But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet  an'  cannie, 

An'  unco  sonsie. 

That  day  ye  pranc'd  wi'  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonnie  bride: 
An'  sweet  an',  gracefu'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air ! 
Kyle-Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide, 

For  sic  a  pair. 

Tho'  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  and  hoble, 
An'  wintle  like  a  saumont-coble. 
That  day,  ye  was  a  j  inker  noble. 

For  heels  an'  win' ! 
An'  ran  them  till  they  a'  did  wauble^ 

Far,  far,  behin'! 

When  thou  an'  I  were  young  an'  skeigh, 

An'  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh. 

How  thou  wad  prance,  an'  snore,  an'  skreigh^ 

An'  tak  the  road ! 
Town's  bodies  ran,  an'  stood  abeigh. 

An'  ca't  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn't,  an'  I  was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  ay  like  a  swallow : 
At  Brooses  thou  had  ne'er  a  fellow. 

For  pith  an'  speed  ; 
But  every  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 

Where'er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma',  droop-rumpl't,  hunter  cattle, 
Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brattle ; 
But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their  mettle^ 

An'  gar't  them  whaizle : 
Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  whattle 

0'  saugh  or  hazle. 

Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan', 

As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn  : 

Aft  thee  an'  I,  in  aught  hours  gaun. 

In  guid  March-weather, 
Hae  turn'd  sax  rood  beside  our  han' 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg't,  an'  fetch't,  an*  fliskit, 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 


68 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


An'  spread  abreed  thy  weel-fiU'd  brisket, 
Wi'  pith  an'  pow'r, 

'Till  spiritty  knowes  wad  rair't  and  risket, 
An'  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  an'  snaws  were  deep, 
An'  threaten'd  labour  back  to  keep, 
I  giod  thy  cog  a  wee-bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer ; 
I  ken'd  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that,  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit ; 

The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac't  it ; 

Thou  never  lap,  an'  sten't,  an'  breastit, 

Then  stood  to  blaw ; 
But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit. 

Thou  snoov't  awa. 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a' ; 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw ; 
Forbye  sax  mae,  I've  sell't  awa. 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  an'  twa. 

The  vera  warst. 

Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 
An,  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought ! 
An'  monie  an  anxious  day,  I  thought 

We  wad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we're  brought, 

Wi'  something  yet. 

And  think  na,  my  auld,  trusty  servan'. 
That  now  perhaps  thou's  less  deservin. 
An'  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin, 

For  my  last  fow, 
A  heapit  stimpart,  I'll  reserve  ane 

Laid  by  for  you. 

We've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither ; 
We'll  toyte  about  wi'  ane  anither ; 
Wi'  tentie  care  I'll  flit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain'd  rig, 
Whare  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi'  sma'  fatigue. 


VIII. 
TO  A  HAGGIS. 

[The  vehement  nationality  of  this  poem  is  but  a  smal 
part  of  its  merit.  The  haggis  of  the  north  is  the  mincet 
pie  of  the  south  ;  both  are  characteristic  of  the  people 
the  ingredients  which  compose  t'  »  former  are  all  of 
Scottish  growth,  including  the  br»  .iiich  contains  tlie-n 
the  ingredients  of  the  latter  a  gathered  chiefly  fmT 
the  four  quarters  of  the  globe  :  the  haggis  is  the  triuinpl 
of  poverty,  the  minced  pie  the  triumph  of  wealth.] 

Fair  fa'  your  honest,  sonsie  face. 
Great  chieftain  o'  the  pudding-race ! 
Aboon  them  a'  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  o'  a  grace 

As  lang's  my  arm. 

The  groaning  trencher  there  ye  fill. 
Your  hurdles  like  a  distant  hill. 
Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a  mill 

In  time  o'  need. 
While  thro'  your  pores  the  dews  distil 

Like  amber  bead. 

His  knife  see  rustic-labour  dight, 
An'  cut  you  up  wi'  ready  slight. 
Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright 

Like  onie  ditch ; 
And  then,  0  what  a  glorious  sight, 

Warm-reekin,  rich ! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  an'  strive, 
Deil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive, 
'Till  a'  their  weel-swall'd  kytes  belyve 

Are  bent  like  drums ; 
Then  auld  Guidman,  maist  like  to  rive, 

Bethankit  hums. 

Is  there  that  o'er  his  French  ragout, 
Or  olio  that  wad  staw  a  sow. 
Or  fricassee  wad  mak  her  spew 

Wi'  perfect  sconner. 
Looks  down  wi'  sneering,  scornfu'  view 

On  sic  a  dinner  ? 

Poor  devil !  see  him  owre  his  trash, 

As  feckless  as  a  wither'd  rash, 

His  spindle  shank  a  guid  whip-lash, 

His  nieve  a  nit ; 
Thro'  bloody  flood  or  field  to  dash-, 

0  how  unfit ! 

But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed. 

The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


69 


Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a  blade, 

He'll  mak  it  whissle; 
An'  legs,  an'  arms,  an'  heads  will  sned. 
Like  taps  o'  thrissle. 

Ye  pow'rs  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o'  fare, 
Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 

That  jaups  in  luggies; 
But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu'  pray'r, 

Gie  her  a  Haggis  I 


IX. 
A  PRAYER, 

UNDER   THB    PRESSURE    OP   TTOLENT   ANGUISH. 

f<*  There  'r'l*.  ,..„  ,tonuu  at  my  life,"  says  Burns, 

"thatmv  s'^  .  A^as  broke  by  repeated  losses  and  dis- 
asters, wnich  threatened  and  indeed  effected  the  ruin  of 
my  fortune.  My  body,  too,  was  attacked  by  the  most 
dreadful  distemper,  a  hypochondria  or  confirmed  melan- 
choly. In  this  wretched  state,  the  recollection  of  which 
makes  me  yet  shudder,  I  hung  my  harp  on  the  willow- 
trees,  except  in  some  lucid  intervals,  in  one  of  which  I 
eomposed  the  following."] 

0  Thou  Great  Being  !  what  Thou  art 

Surpasses  me  to  know : 
Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  Thee 

Are  all  Thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands. 

All  wretched  and  distrest ; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  Thy  high  behest. 

Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 
0,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death ! 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  be. 

To  suit  some  wise  design ; 
Then,  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves 

7o  bear  and  not  repine ! 


A  PRAYER 

IN   THB    PROSPECT   OF   DEATH. 

[I  have  heard  the  third  verse  of  this  very  moving 
Prayer  quoted  by  scrupulous  men  as  a  proof  tl  Pt  the 
poet  imputed  his  errors  to  the  Being  who  had  endowed 
him  with  wild  and  unruly  passions.  The  meanirg  la 
very  different :  Burns  felt  the  torrent-strength  of  ppssion 
overpowering  his  resolution,  and  trusted  that  God  wouii 
be  merciful  to  the  errorsof  one  on  whom  he  had  bestowed 
such  o'ermastering  gifts.] 

0  Thou  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear  ? 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour 

Perhaps  I  must  appear ! 

If  I  have  wander'd  in  those  paths 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun ; 
As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast. 

Remonstrates  I  have  done  ; 

Thou  know'st  that  Thou  hast  formed  me. 
With  passions  wild  and  strong  ; 

And  list'ning  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short, 

Or  frailty  stept  aside, 
Do  Thou,  All-Good !  for  such  thou  art, 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

Where  with  intention  I  have  err'd, 

No  other  plea  I  have. 
But,  Thou  art  good ;  and  goodness  still 

Delighteth  to  forgive. 


XI. 
STANZAS 

ON   THE    SAME  OCCASION. 

[These  verses  the  poet,  in  his  common-place  took, 
calls  "  Misgivings  in  the  Hour  of  Despondency  and  Pro- 
spect of  Death."  He  elsewhere  says  th'^y  were  com- 
posed when  fainting-fits  and  otlier  alarming  symptom! 
of  a  pleurisy,  or  some  otlier  dangerous  disorder,  i.rst  put 
nature  on  the  alarm.] 

Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 

Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  ? 
Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill  between : 

Some    gleams   of    sunshine    'mid    renewinit 
storms : 


70 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Ts  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  Death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms; 

I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  I  say,  *'  Forgive  my  foul  offence !" 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey  ; 
But,  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense, 

Again  I  might  desert  fair  virtue's  way : 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray ; 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man ; 
Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray. 

Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan  ? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn'd,  yet  to  temptation 
ran? 

0  Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below ! 

If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow. 

Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea : 
With  that  controlling  pow'r  assist  ev'n  me 

Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  confine ; 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  pow'rs  to  be, 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  th'  allowed  line ; 
0,  aid  me  with  Thy  help.  Omnipotence  Divine ! 


xn. 
A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

"  Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  the  pitiless  storm ! 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  looped  and  widow'd  raggedness  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  ?" 

Shakspeare. 

["  This  poem,"  says  my  friend  Thomas  Carlyle,  "is 
worth  several  homilies  on  mercy,  for  it  is  the  voice  of 
Mercy  herself.  Burns,  indeed,  lives  in  sympathy:  his 
Boul  rushes  forth  into  all  the  realms  of  being :  nothing 
that  has  existence  can  be  indifferent  to  him."] 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure. 
Sharp  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bow'r ; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a  short-liv'd  glow'r 

Far  south  the  lift. 
Dim-darkening  through  the  flaky  show'r, 

Or  whirling  drift : 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked. 
Poor  labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked. 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreeths  up-choked. 
Wild-eddying  swirl, 


Or  through  the  mining  outlet  booked, 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

Listening,  the  doors  an'  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle. 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

0'  winter  war, 
And  through  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle 

Beneath  a  scar. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing, 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  wilt  thou  cower  thy  chittering  wing. 

An'  close  thy  e'e  ? 

Ev'n  you  on  murd'ring  errands  toil'd. 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exiled, 
The  blood-stained  roost,  and  sheep-cote  spoiled 

My  heart  forgets, 
While  pitiless  the  '     ■-^'^"^  rvWd 

~  Vata. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign, 
Dark  muffled,  viewed  the  dreary  plain ; 
Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, 
When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain 

Slow,  solemn,  stole : — 

**  Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust ! 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost ; 
Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows ! 
Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting. 
Vengeful  malice  unrepenting. 
Than   heaven-illumined  man  on  brother  man 
bestows  ; 
See  stern  oppression's  iron  grip. 
Or  mad  ambition's  gory  hand. 
Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip. 
Woe,  want,  and  murder  o'er  a  land ! 
Even  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale. 
Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale, 
How  pamper'd  luxury,  flattery  by  her  side. 
The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 
With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear. 
Looks  o'er  proud  property,  extended  wide ; 
And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind. 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glittering  show, 
A  creature  of  another  kind. 
Some  coarser  substance,  unrefin'd, 
Placed  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus  vile^ 
below. 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


71 


Where,  where  is  love's  fond,  tender  throe, 
With  lordly  honour's  lofty  brow, 
The  powers  you  proudly  own  ? 
Is  there,  beneath  love's  noble  name, 
Can  harbour,  dark,  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone  ! 
Mark  maiden  innocence  a  prey 

Tc  love-pretending  snares. 
This  boasted  honour  turns  away. 
Shunning  soft  pity's  rising  sway. 
Regardless  of  the  tears  and  unavailing  prayers ! 
Pd^haps  this  hour,  in  misery's  squa'id  nest. 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast, 
And  with  a  mother's  fears  shrinks  at  the  rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh  ye !  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down. 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
Think,  for  a  moment,  on  his  wretched  fate, 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown ! 
Ill  satisfied  keen  nature's  clamorous  call. 
Stretched   on  his  straw   he  lays  himself  to 
sleep, 
W^hile   through   the  ragged  roof    and  chinky 
wall, 
Chill  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap  ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine,         , 
Where  guilt  and  poor  misfortune  pine ! 
Guilt,  erring  man,  rehenting  view ! 
But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  fortune's  undeserved  blow  ? 
Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress, 
A  brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss  1" 

I  heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 

Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw. 
And  hailed  the  morning  with  a  cheer — 

A  cottage-rousing  craw  I 

But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my  mind — 

Through  all  his  works  abroad, 
The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 

The  most  resembles  God. 


xin. 
REMORSE. 

A   FKAGMENT. 


t'»  1  entirely  agree,"  says  Burns,  *«  with  the  author  of 
the  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments,  tliat  Remorse  is  the 
most  pninful  sentiment  that  can  embitter  the  human 
bosom;  an  ordinary  pitch  of  fortitude  may  bear  up  admi- 
rahlv  well,  under  those  calamities,  in  the  procurement 


of  wliich  we  ourselves  have  had  no  hand  :  but  when  oui 
follies  or  crimes  have  made  us  wretched,  to  bear  all 
with  manly  firmness,  and  at  the  same  time  have  a  propei 
penitential  sense  of  our  misconduct,  is  a  flrlorious  effort 
o{  self-command."] 

Of  all  the  numerous  ills  thqjt  hurt  our  peace, 
That  press  the  soul,  or  wring  the  mind  with 

anguish, 
Beyond  comparison  the  worst  are  those 
That  to  our  folly  or  our  guilt  we  owe. 
In  every  other  circumstance,  the  mind 
Has  this  to  say,  '  It  was  no  deed  of  mine  ;' 
But  when  to  all  the  evil  of  misfortune 
This  sting  is  added — <  Blame  thy  foolish  self!' 
Or  worser  far,  the  pangs  of  keen  remorse ; 
The  torturing,  gnawing  consciousness  of  guilt, — 
Of  guilt,  perhaps,  where  we've  involved  others  ; 
The  young,  the  innocent,  who  fondly  lov  a  us, 
Nay,  more,  that  very  love  their  cause  of  ruin  I 
0  burning  hell !  in  all  thy  store  of  torments, 
There's  not  a  keener  lash ! 
Lives  there  a  man  so  firm,  who,  while  his  heart 
Feels  all  the  bitter  hciyors  of  his  crime, 
Can  reason  down  its  agonizing  throbs ; 
And,  aftier  J)roper  purpose  of  amendment. 
Can  firmly  force  his  jarring  thoughts  to  peace  ? 
0,  happy !  happy !  enviable  man ! 
0  glorious  magnanimity  of  soul ! 


XIV. 
THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

A   CANTATA. 

[This  inimitable  poem,  unknown  to  Currie  and  uuhenrd- 
of  while  the  poet  lived,  was  first  given  to  the  world,  with 
other  characteristic  pieces,  by  Mr.  Stewart  of  Glasgow, 
in  the  year  1801.  Some  have  surmised  that  it  is  not  tlie 
work  of  Burns;  but  the  parentage  is  certain  :  the  original 
manuscript  at  the  time  of  its  compositirm,  in  1785,  was 
put  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Richmond  of  Mauchline,  and 
afterwards  given  by  Burns  himself  to  Mr.  Woc^dbura 
factor  of  the  laird  of  Craigengillan ;  the  song  of  "  For  a' 
tbat»  and  a'  that"  was  inserted  by  the  poet,  with  hif 
name,  in  tlie  Musical  Museum  of  February,  I'W.  C'ro- 
mek  admired,  yet  did  not,  from  overruling  advice  prinl 
it  in  the  Reliques,  for  which  he  was  sharply  censured  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the  Quarterlf  Review.  The  scene 
of  the  poem  is  in  Mauchline,  wliei-s  Poosie  Nansie  had 
her  change-house.  Only  one  copy  in  the  handwriting 
of  Burns  is  supposed  to  exist ;  and  of  it  a  very  accurate 
fac-simile  has  been  given.] 

RECITATIVO. 
When  lyart  leaves  bestrow  the  yird, 
Or  wavering  like  the  bauckie-bird, 
Bedim  cauld  Boreas'  blast ; 


72 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


When  hailstanes  drive  wV  bitter  skyte 

Yet  let  my  country  need  me, 

And  infant  frosts  begin  to^bite, 

With  Elliot  to  head  me, 

In  hoary  cranreuch  drest ; 

I'd  clatter  on  my  stumps 

Ae  night  at  e'en  a  merry  core  ' 

At  the  sound  of  a  drum. 

0'  randie,  gangrel  bodies,                   * 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

In  Poosie-Nansie's  held  the  splore, 

To  drink  their  orra  duddies : 

And  now  tho'  I  must  beg. 

Wi'  quaffing  and  laughing, 

With  a  wooden  arm  and  leg. 

They  ranted  an'  they  sang; 

And  many  a  tatter'd  rag 

Wi'  jumping  and  thumping, 

Hanging  over  my  bum, 

The  vera  girdle  rang. 

I'm  as  happy  with  my  wallet, 

My  'ottle  and  mvjcallfit.  £*^^^^  ,»/!r^-^^- 

First,  neist  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rags, 

As  when  I  used  in  scarlet 

Ane  sat,  weel  brac'd  wi'  mealy  bags, 

To  follow  a  drum. 

And  knapsack  a'  in  order ; 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

His  doxy  lay  within  his  arm. 

Wi'  usquebae  an'  blankets  warm — 

What  tho'  with  hoary  locks 

SKeTlTrfket  on  her  sodger : 

I  must  stand  the  winter  shocks, 

An'  ay  he  gies  the  tozie  drab     ^               ^ 

Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks 

The  tither  skelpin'  kiss. 

Oftentimes  for  a  home, 

While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab 

When  the  tother  bag  I  sell. 

Just  like  an  aumous  dish. 

And  the  tother  bottle  tell. 

Ilk  smack  still,  did  crack  still, 

I  could  meet  a  troop  oi  hell, 

Just  like  a  cadger's  whip. 

At  the  sound  of  a  drum. 

Then  staggering  and  swaggering 

Lai  de  daudle,  &o 

He  roar'd  this  ditty  up — 

RECITATIVO. 

AIR. 

He  ended ;  and  kebars  shenk, 

Tune—"  Soldiers'  Joy.'' 

Aboon  the  chorus  roar ; 

While  frighted  rattons  backward  leuk. 

I  AM  a  son  of  Mars, 

And* seek  the  benmost  bore; 

Who  have  been  in  many  wars, 

A  fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk. 

And  show  my  cuts  and  scars 

He  skirl'd  out — encore ! 

Wherever  I  come ; 

But  up  arose  the  martial  Chuck, 

This  here  was  for  a  wench. 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 

And  that  other  in  a  trench. 

When  welcoming  the  French 

• 

At  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

AIR. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

Tune— " /S^oZ<^ier  laddie:' 

My  'prenticeship  I  past 

I  ONCE  was  a  maid,  tho'  I  cannot  tell  when. 

Where  my  leader  breath'd  his  last, 

And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men; 

When  the  bloody  die  was  cast 

Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was  my  dadJil^ 

On  the  heights  of  Abram ; 

No  wonder  I'm  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie. 

I  served  out  my  trade 

Sing,  Lai  de  dal,  &c. 

When  the  gallant  game  was  play'd. 

And  the  Moro  low  was  laid 

The  first  of  my  loves  was  a  swaggering  blade, 

At  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  trade; 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  his  cheek  was  so  ruddy. 

Transported  I  was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 

A  lastly  was  with  Curtis, 

Sing,  Lai  de  dal,  &c. 

Amoufe  the  floating  batt'ries, 

A  ad  there  I  left  for  witness 

But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the  lurch, 

An  arm  and  a  limb  ; 

The  sword  I  forsook  for  the  sake  of  the  church; 

#F   BflERT   BURNS. 


r^d/. 


7b 


He  Tentur'd  the  soul,  and  I  risk'd  the  body, 
*Twas  then  I  prov'd  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lai  de  dal,  &c. 

Full  soon  I  grew  s'ck  of  my  sanctified  sot. 
The  regiment  at  'arge  for  a  husband  I  got ; 
From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I  was  ready, 
I  asked  no  more  but  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal.de  dal,  &c. 

But  the  peace  it  reduc'd  me  to  beg  in  despair. 
Till  I  met  my  old  boy  in  u  Cunningham  fair; 
His  rags  regimental  they  flutter'd  so  gaudy, 
My  heart  is  rejoic'd  at  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lai  de  dal,  &c. 

And  now  I  have  liv'd — I  know  not  how  long, 

And  still  I  can  join  in  a  cup  or  a  song ; 

But  whilst  with  both  hands  I  can  hold  the  glass 

steady. 
Here's  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lai  de  dal,  &c. 


.-\i 


RECITATIVO. 

Poor  Merry  Andrew  in  tjhe  neuk, 

Sat  guzzling  wi'  a  tinkler  hizzie  ; 
They  mind't  na  wha  the  chorus  teuk, 

Between  themselves  they  were  sae  busy  : 
At  length  wi'  drink  and  courting  dizzy 

He  stoitered  up  an'  made  a  face  ; 
Then  turn'd,  an'  laid  a  smack  on  Grizzle, 

Syne  tun'd  his  pipes  wi'  grave  grimace. 


Tune — '^Auld  Sir  Symon." 

Sir  Wisdom's  a  fool  when  he's  fou, 
Sir  Knave  is  a  fool  in  a  session ; 

He's  there  but  a  'prentice  I  trow, 
But  I  am  a  fool  by  profession. 

My  grannie  she  bought  me  a  beuk, 
And  I  held  awa  to  the  school ; 

I  fear  I  my  talent  misteuk. 
But  what  will  ye  hae  of  a  fool  ? 

For  drink  I  would  venture  my  neck 
A  hizzie's  the  half  o'  my  craft. 

But  what  could  ye  other  expect, 
Of  ane  that's  avowedly  daft  ? 

•v  r  ►  *^" 

I  ance  was  ty'd  up  like  a  stirt, 
For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffing ; 

[  ance  was  abused  in  the  kirk, 
For  touzling  a  lass  i'  my  daffin. 


^ 


Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport, 
Let  naebody  name  wi'  a  jeer; 

There's  ev'n  I'm  tauld  i'  the  court 
A  tumbler  ca'd  the  premier. 

Observ'd  ye,  yon  reverend  lad 

Maks  faces  to  tickle  the  mob  ; 

He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad, 

Its  rivalship  just  i'  the  job. 
« 
And  now  my  conclusion  I'll  tell, 

For  faith  I'm  confoundedly  dry ; 

The  chiel  that's  a  fool  for  himsel', 

Gude  L — d !  he's  far  dafter  than  I. 


KECITATITO. 


-.r^ 


Then  neist  outspak  a  raucle  carlin, 
Wha  kent  fu'  weel  to  cleek  the  sterling, 
For  monie  a  pursie  she  had  hooked. 
And  had  in  mony  a  well  been  ducked. 
Her  dove  had  been  a  Highland  laddie, 
But  weary  fa'  the  waefu*  woodie  ! 
Wi'  sighs  and  sobs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  Highlandman. 


Tune — **  0  an  ye  were  dead,  ffuidman." 

A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born. 
The  Lalland  laws  he  held  in  scorn ; 
But  he  still  was  faithfu'  to  his  clan. 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing,  hey  my  brnw  John  Highlandman  I 
Sing,  ho  my  braw  John  Highlandman  ! 
There's  not  a  lad  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman. 

With  his  philibeg  an'  tartan  plaid. 
An'  gude  claymore  down  by  his  side, 
The  ladies'  hearts  he  did  trepan, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman, 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

We  ranged  a'  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 
An'  liv'd  like  lords  and  ladies  gay ; 
For  a  Lalland  face  he  feared  none. 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

They  banished  him  beyond  the  sea. 
But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran. 
Embracing  my  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 


74 


THE   I>OETlCAliVTOHfc:S 


But,  och !  they  catch'd  him  at  the  last, 
And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast ; 
My  curse  upon  them  every  one, 
They've  hang'd  my  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

And  now  a  widow,  I  must  mourn, 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne'er  return, : 
No  comfort  but  a  hearty  can. 
When  I  think  on  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A  pigmy  scraper,  wi'  his  fiddle, 

Wha  us'd  at  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddle, 

Her  strappan  limb  and  gausy  middle, 

He  reach'd  na  higher, 
Had  hol'd  his  heartie  like  a  riddle. 

An'  blawn't  on  fire. 

Wi'  hand  on  hainch,  an'  upward  e'e, 
He  croon'd  his  gamut,  one,  two,  three. 
Then  in  an  Arioso  key. 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  off  wi'  Allegretto  glee 

His  giga  solo. 

AIR. 

Tune — '*  Whistle  o^er  the  lave  o't." 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear. 
And  go  wi'  me  and  be  my  dear. 
And  then  your  every  care  and  fear 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 

CHORUS. 

I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade. 
An'  a'  the  tunes  that  e'er  I  play'd, 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid. 
Was  whistle  oWre  the  lave  o't. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we'se  be  there. 
And  0  !  sae  nicely's  we  will  fare  ; 
We'll  house  about  till  Daddie  Care 
Sings  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
I  am,  &c. 

Sae  merrily  the  banes  we'll  byke. 

And  sun  oursells  about  the  dyke. 

And  at  our  leisure,  when  ye  like. 

We'll  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 

I  am,  &c. 

But  bless  rae^wi'  j^our  heav'n  o'  charms, 
And  while  I  kittle  hair  on  thairms,  , 


Hunger,  cauld,  and  a'  sic  harms, 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
I  am,  &c. 

EECITATIVO. 

Her  charms  had  struck  a  sturdy  caird, 

As  weel  as  poor  gut-scraper ; 
He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard. 

And  draws  a  roosty  rapier — 
He  swoor  by  a'  was  swearing  worth, 

To  speet  him  like  a  pliver, 
Unless  he  wad  from  that  time  forth 

Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi'  ghastly  e'e,  poor  tweedle-(ie^    \^^  ^u 

Upon  his  hunkers  bended,  ^ 

And  pray'd  for  grace  wi'  ruefu'  face. 

And  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 
But  tho'  his  little  heart  did  grieve 

When  round  the  tinkler  prest  her, 
He  feign'd  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve. 

When  thus  the  caird  address'd  her : 


Tune — "  Clout  the  CaudronJ* 

My  bonny  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinkler  is  my  station : 
I've  travell'd  round  all  Christian  ground 

In  this  my  occupation : 
I've  taen  the  gold,  an'  been  enrolled 

In  many  a  noble  squadron  : 
But  vain  they  search'd,  when  off"  I  march'd 

To  go  and  clout  the  caudron. 

I've  taen  the  gold,  &c. 

Despise  that  shrimp,  that  wither'd  imp, 

Wi'  a'  his  noise  and  caprin. 
And  tak  a  share  wi'  those  that  bear 

The  budget  and  the  apron. 
And  by  that  stoup,  my  faith  and  houp, 

An'  by  that  dear  Kilbaigie,' 
If  e'er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi'  scant. 

May  I  ne'er  weet  my  craigie. 

An'  by  that  stoup,  &o. 

KECITATITO. 

The  caird  prevail'd — th'  unblushing  fair 

In  his  embraces  sunk. 
Partly  wi'  love  o'ercome  sae  sair. 

An'  partly  she  was  drunk. 


1  A  peculiar  sort  of  whiskey. 


OF   BOBEKT   BUKNS. 


75 


Sir  Violino,  -w^ith  an  air 

That  show'd  a  man  of  spunk, 
Wish'd  unison  between  the  pair, 

An'  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 

But  ur;hi»\  Cupid  shot  a  shaft,  ^  v^^"'" 

That  play'd  a  dame  a  shavie,^-*-  *^ 
A  sailor  rak'd  her  fore  and  aft, 

Behint  the  chicken  cavie.  c*^' \ 
Her  lord,  a  wighi  o'  Homer's  craft, 

Tho'  limgping  wi'  tjie  sp^vie, 
He  hi^pi%  up,  and  lap  like  daft, 

And  shor'd  them  Dainty  Davie 

0  boot  that  night. 

He  was  a  care-defying  blade 

As  ever  Bacchus  listed, 
Tho'  Fortune  sair  upon  him  laid, 

His  heart  she  ever  miss'd  it. 
He  had  nae  wish  but — to  be  glad, 

Nor  want  but — when  he  thirsted ; 
He  hated  nought  but — to  be  sad, 

And  thus  the  Muse  suggested 

His  sang  that  night. 


Tune — ^^  For  a'  that,  arC  o'  that.^ 
I  am  a  bard  of  no  regard 

Wi'  gentle  folks,  an'  a'  that :  ^  ; 

But  Homer-like,  the  glowran  byke,'  ^ 

Frae  town  to  town  I  draw  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 
An'  twice  as  muckle's  a'  that ; 

I've  lost  but  ane,  I've  twa  behin', 
I've  wife  eneugh  for  a'  that. 

I  never  drank  the  Muses'  stank, 
Castalia's  burn,  an'  a'  that ; 

But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams. 
My  Helicon  I  ca'  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

Gr^at  love  I  bear  to  a'  the  fair. 
Their  humble  slave,  an'  a'  that ; 

But  lordly  will,  I  hold  it  stilly  ,ji^ 
A  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 
Wi'  mutual  love,  an  a*  that: 

But  for  how  lang  the  flie  may  stang, 
Let  inclination  law  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 


Their  tricks  and  craft  have  put  me  daft, 
They've  ta'en  me  in,  and  a'  that ; 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  here's  the  sex 
I  like  the  jads  for  a'  that. 


CHORUS. 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

An'  twice  as  muckle's  a'  that ; 

My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid, 
They're  welcome  till't  for  a'  that. 

BECITATIVO. 

So  sung  the  bard — and  Nansie's  wa's 
Shook  with  a  thunder  of  applause, 

Re-echo'd  from  each  mouth  : 
They  toom'd  their  pocks,  an'  pawn'd  their 

duds. 
They  scarcely  left  to  co'er  their  fuds. 

To  quench  their  lowaiT^roUth.  r^-UvA^ 
Then  owre  again,  the  jovial  thrang, 

The  poet  did  request. 
To  loose  his  pack  an'  wale  a  sang, 
A  ballad  o'  the  best ; 
He  rising,  rejoicing, 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs 
Looks  round  him,  an'  found  them 
Impatient  for  the  chorus. 


Tune — "  Jolly  Mortals,  fill  your  Glasses." 

See  !  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 
Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring ! 

Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus. 
And  in  raptures  let  us  sing. 

CHORUS. 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  I 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast ! 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title  ?  what  is  treasure  ? 

What  is  reputatioi 
[f  we  lead  a  life  ot  pxeaduit, 

'Tis  no  matter  how  or  where !     , 
A  fig,  &c. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable. 
Round  we  wander  all  the  day ; 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable. 
Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 
A  fig,  &c. 


76                                     THE   POETICAL  WORKS 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 

The  Clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 

Through  the  country  lighter  rove  ? 

I  was  na  fou,  but  just  had  plenty  ; 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 

I  stacher'd  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  ay 

Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love  ? 

To  free  the  ditches ; 

A  fig,  &c. 

An'  hillocks,  stanes,  and  bushes,  kenn'd  ay 

Frae  ghaists  an'  witches 

Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes ; 

The  rising  moon  began  to  glow'r 

Let  them  cant  about  decorum 

The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre : 

Who  have  characters  to  lose. 

To  count  her  horns  with  a'  my  pow'r, 

A  fig,  &c. 

I  set  mysel ; 

But  whethpr  she  had  three  or  four, 

Here's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets ! 

I  could  na  tell. 

Here's  to  all  the  wandering  train ! 

Here's  our  ragged  brats  and  callets  ! 

I  was  come  round  about  the  hill, 

One  and  all  cry  out — Amen ! 

And  todlin  down  on  Willie's  mill, 

Setting  my  staff  with  a'  my  skill, 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected ! 

To  keep  me  sicker; 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast ! 

Tho'  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 

I  took  a  bicker 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

I  there  wi'  something  did  forgather, 

That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither ; 

An  awfu'  scythe,  out-owre  ae  shouther. 

XV. 

Clear-dangling,  hang ; 

A  three-taed  leister  on  the  ither 

DEATH  AND   DR.  HORNBOOK. 

Lay,  large  an'  lang. 

A   TRUE    STORY. 

Its  stature  seem'd  lang  Scotch  ells  twa. 

[John  Wilson,  raised  to  the  unwelcome  elevation  of 

The  queerest  shape  that  e'er  I  saw, 

hero  to  this  poem,  was,  at  the  time  of  its  composition, 
schoolmaster  in   Tarbolton  :   he  was,  it  is  said,  a  fair 

For  fient  a  wame  it  had  ava  : 

scholar,  and  a  very  worthy  man,  but  vain  of  his  know- 

And then,  its  shanks. 

ledge  in  medicine— so  vain,  that  he  advertised  his  merits, 

They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp  an'  sma' 

and   offered  advice  gratis.      It  was  his  misfortune  to 

As  cheeks  o'  branks. 

encounter  Burns  at  a  mason  meetings  who,  provoked  by  a 

long  and  pedantic  speech,  from  the  Dominie,  exclaimed, 

*'Guid-een,"  quo'  I;   "Friend, hae  ye  beei 

the  future  lampoon  dawning  upon  him,  "Sit  down,  Dr. 

mawin, 

Hornbook."  On  his  way  home,  the  poet  seated  himself  on 

the  ledge  of  a  bridge,  composed  the  poem,  and,  overcome 

When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin  ?" 

with  poesie  and  drink,  fell  asleep,  and  did  not  awaken 

It  seem'd  to  mak  a  kind  o'  stan', 

til-  the  sun  was  shining  over  Galston  Moors.    Wilson 

But  naething  spak ; 

went  afterwards  to  Glasgow,  embarked  in  mercantile 
Iind  matrimonial  speculations,  and  prospered,  and  is  still 
jrosporing.] 

At  length,  says  I,  "Friend,  where  ye  gaun, 
Will  ye  go  back  ?" 

Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 

It  spak  right  howe, — "  My  name  is  Death, 

And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn'd: 

But  be  na  fley'd."— Quoth  I,  "  Guid  faith, 

Ev'n  ministers,  they  ha'e  been  kenn'd, 

Ye're  may  be  come  to  stap  my  breath  ; 

■n  holy  rapture, 

But  tent  me,  billie  ; 

A  '«^usxng  wnid,  at  times,  to  vend, 

I  red  ye  weel,  take  care  o'  skaith. 

And  nail't  wi'  Scripture. 

See,  there's  a  gully !" 

But  this  that  I  am  gaun  to  tell, 

"Guidman,"  quo'  he,  "put  up  your  whittle 

Which  lately  on  a  night  befel. 

I'm  no  design'd  to  try  its  mettle  ; 

Is  just  as  true's  the  Deil's  in  h-11 

But  if  I  did,  I  wad  be  kittle 

Or  Dublin-city ; 

To  be  mislear'd. 

That  e'er  he  nearer  comes  oursel 

I  wad  nae  mind  it,  no  that  spittle 

'S  a  muckle  pity. 

Out-owre  mv  beard." 

OF  BOBERT  BUBNS.                                         77 

•*Weel,  weel!"  says  I,  "a  bargain  be't; 

<'Ev'n  them  he  canna  get  attended, 

Come,  gies  your  hand,  an'  sae  we're  gree't ; 

Although  their  face  he  ne'er  had  kend  it, 

We'll  ease  our  shanks  an'  tak  a  seat, 

Just  sh —  in  a  kail-blade,  and  send  it, 

Come,  gies  your  news ! 

As  soon's  he  smells't. 

This  while  ye  hae  been  mony  a  gate 

Baith  their  disease,  and  what  will  mend  it. 

At  mony  a  house. 

At  once  he  tells't. 

"Ay,  ay!"  quo'  he,  an'  shook  his  head, 

"  And  then  a'  doctor's  saws  and  whittles. 

"  It's  e'en  a  lang,  lang  time  indeed 

Of  a'  dimensions,  shapes,  an'  mettles, 

Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread, 

A'  kii>ds  o'  boxes,  mugs,  an'  bottles, 

An'  choke  the  breath : 

y                               He's  sure  to  hae  -, 
^heir  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 

Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread,           ^ 

An'  sae  maun  Death. 

As  A  B  C. 

"  Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled 

"  Calces  o'  fossils,  earths,  and  trees  j 

Sin'  I  was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

True  sal-marinum  o'  the  seas ; 

An'  mony  a  scheme  in  vain's  been  laid, 

The  farina  of  beans  an''  --^ease. 

To  stap  or  scar  me  ; 

±ie  has't  in  plenty ; 

Till  ane  Hornbook's  ta'en  up  the  trade, 

Aqua-fortis,  what  you  please, 

An'  faith,  he'll  waur  me. 

He  can  content  ye. 

•'  Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i'  the  Clachan, 

**  Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 

Deil  mak  his  kings-hood  in  a  spleuchan  ! 

Urinus  spiritus  of  capons  ; 

He's  grown  sae  weel  acquaint  wi'  Buchan' 

Or  mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 

An'  ither  chaps, 

Distill' d  per  se: 

The  weans  baud  out  their  fingers  laughin 

Sal-alkali  o'  midge-tail  clippings. 

And  pouk  my  hips. 

And  mony  mae." 

••  See,  here's  a  scythe,  and  there's  a  dart, 

"  Waes  me  for  Johnny  Ged's-Hole^  now." 

They  hae  pierc'd  mony  a  gallant  heart ; 

Quo'  I,  "If  that  thae  news  be  true ! 

But  Doctor  Hornbook,  wi'  his  art 

His  braw  calf-ward  whare  gowans  grew. 

And  cursed  skill, 

Sae  white  and  bonie, 

Has  made  them  baith  no  worth  a  f — t. 

Nae  doubt  they'll  rive  it  wi'  the  plew ; 

Damn'd  haet  they'll  kill. 

They'll  ruin  Johnie '" 

•*  'Twas  but  yestreen,  nae  farther  gaen. 

The  creature  grain'd  an  eldritch  laugh. 

I  threw  a  noble  throw  at  ane ; 

And  says,  "  Ye  need  na  yoke  the  pleugh, 

Wi'  less,  I'm  sure,  I've  hundreds  slain ; 

Kirkyards  will  soon  be  till'd  eneugh, 

But-deil-ma-care, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear ; 

It  just  play'd  dirl  on  the  bane, 

They'll  a'  be  trench'd  wi'  mony  a  sheugh 

But  did  nae  mair. 

In  twa-three  year. 

"  Hornbook  was  by,  wi'  ready  art, 

"  Whare  I  kill'd  ane  a  fair  strae  death. 

And  had  sae  fortified  the  part, 

By  loss  o'  blood  or  want  of  breath. 

That  when  I  looked  to  my  dart, 

This  night  I'm  free  to  tak  my  aith, 

It  was  sae  blunt, 

That  Hornbook's  skill 

Fient  haet  o't  wad  hae  pierc'd  the  heart 

Has  clad  a  score  i'  their  last  claith, 

Of  a  kail-runt. 

By  drap  an'  pill. 

«*  I  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a  fury, 

"An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade. 

I  nearhand  cowpit  wi'  my  hurry, 

Whase  wife's  twa  nieves  were  scarce  weel  bred^ 

|5ut  yet  the  bauld  Apothecary, 

Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head. 

Withstood  the  shock ; 

When  it  was  sair ; 

I  might  as  weel  hae  tried  a  quarry 

The  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed, 

0'  hard  whin  rock. 

But  ne'er  spak  mair 

1  Buchan'a  Domestic  Medicine. 

«  The  grave-diggei 

78 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


"  A  countra  laird  had  ta'en  the  batts, 
Or  some  curmui'ring  in  his  guts, 
His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets, 

An'  pays  him  well. 
The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer-pets, 

Was  laird  himsel. 

**  A  bonnie  lass,  ye  kend  her  name, 

Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hov'd  her  wame ; 

She  trusts  hersel,  to  hide  the  shame. 

In  Hornbook's  care ; 
Ilorn  sent  her  afiF  to  her  lang  hame, 

To  hide  it  there. 

"  That's  just  a  swatch  o'  Hornbook's  way ; 
Thus  goes  he  on  frorp  day  to  day, 
Thus  does  he  poison,  Km,  an'  slay, 

An's  weel  paid  for't ; 
Yet  stops  me  o'  my  lawfu'  prey, 

Wi'  his  d-mn'd  dirt: 

"  But,  hark !  I'll  tell  you  of  a  plot, 
Though  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o't ; 
I'll  nail  the  self-conceited  sot, 

As  dead's  a  herrin' : 
Niest  time  we  meet,  I'll  wad  a  groat. 

He  gets  his  fairin' !" 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell. 

Tile  auld  kirk-hammer  strak'  the  bell 

Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal. 

Which  rais'd  us  baith : 
I  took  the  way  that  pleas'd  mysel'. 

And  sae  did  Death. 


XVI. 

THE   TWA   HERDS: 

THE   HOLY   TULZIE. 

[The  actors  in  this  indecent  drama  were  Moodie, 
minister  of  Ricartoun,  and  Russell,  helper  to  the  minister 
of  Kilmarnock  :  though  apostles  of  the  "  Old  Light," 
they  forgot  their  brotherhood  in  the  vehemence  of  con- 
troversy, and  went,  it  is  said,  to  blows.  "  This  poem," 
lavs  Burns,  "  with  a  certain  description  of  the  clergy  as 
H^ell  as  laity,  met  with  a  roar  of  applause."] 

0  a'  ye  pious  godly  flocks, 
Weel  fed  on  pastures  orthodox, 
Wha  now  will  keep  you  frae  the  fox, 

Or  worrying  tykes, 
Or  wha  will  tent  the  waifs  and  crocks, 

About  the  dykes  ? 


The  twa  best  herds  in  a'  the  wast. 
That  e'er  ga'e  gospel  horn  a  blast, 
These  five  and  twenty  simmers  past, 

0  !  dool  to  tell, 
Ha'e  had  a  bitter  black  out-cas.t 

Atween  themsel. 

0,  Moodie,  man,  and  wordy  Russell, 
How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a  bustle, 
Ye'll  see  how  New-Light  herds  will  whistle 

And  think  it  fine  : 
The  Lord's  cause  ne'er  got  sic  a  twistle 

Sin'  I  ha'e  min'. 

0,  sirs !  whae'er  wad  ha'e  expeckit 

Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit. 

Ye  wha  were  ne'er  by  lairds  respeckit, 

To  wear  the  plaid. 
But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit, 

To  be  their  guide. 

What  flock  wi'  Hoodie's  flock  could  rank, 
Sae  hale  and  hearty,  every  shank, 
Nae  poison'd  sour  Arminian  stank, 

He  let  them  taste, 
Frae  ^Calvin's  well,  ay  clear  they  drank, — 

0  sic  a  feast ! 

The  thummart,  wil'-cat,  brock,  and  tod, 
Weel  kend  his  voice  thro'  a'  the  wood. 
He  smelt  their  ilka  hole  and  road, 

Baith  out  and  in, 
And  weel  he  lik'd  to  shed  their  bluid, 

And  sell  their  skin. 

What  herd  like  Russell  tell'd  his  tale, 
His  voice  was  heard  thro'  muir  and  dale. 
He  kend  the  Lord's  sheep,  ilka  tail, 

O'er  a'  the  height. 
And  saw  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale. 

At  the  first  sight. 

He  fine  a  mangy  sheep  could  scrub, 

Or  nobly  fling  the  gospel  club. 

And  New-Light  herds  could  nicely  drub, 

Or  pay  their  skin ; 
Could  shake  them  o'er  the  burning  dub, 

Or  heave  them  in. 

Sic  twa — 0 !  do  I  live  to  see't, 
Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet. 
An'  names,  like  villain,  hypocrite, 

Hk  ither  gi'en, 
While  New-Light  herds,  wi'  laughin'  spite, 

Say  neither's  liein' ' 


or   HOBERT   BURNS. 


79 


An'  ye  wha  tent  the  gospel  fauld, 

There's  Duncan,  deep,  and  Peebles,  shaul, 

But  chiefly  thou,  apostle  Auld, 

We  trust  in  thee, 
That  thou  wilt  work  them,  hot  and  cauld. 

Till  they  agree. 

Consider,  Sirs,  how  we're  beset ; 
There's  scarce  a  new  herd  that  we  get 
But  comes  frae  mang  that  cursed  set 

I  winna  name  ; 
I  hope  frae  heav'n  to  see  them  yet 

In  fiery  flame. 

Dalryraple  has  been  lang  our  fae, 
M'Gill  has  wrought  us  meikle  wae, 
Aud  that  curs'd  rascal  call'd  M'Quhae, 

And  baith  the  Shaws, 
Tnat  aft  ha'e  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi'  vengefu'  paws. 

A  aid  Wodrow  lang  has  hatch'd  mischief, 
■\Ve  thought  ay  death  wad  bring  relief, 
but  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  him, 
A  chield  wha'U  soundly  buff  our  beef; 

I  meikle  dread  him. 

And  mony  a  ane  that  I  could  tell, 
"Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 
Forbye  turn-coats  amang  oursel. 

There's  Smith  for  ane, 
I  doubt  he's  but  a  grey-nick  quill, 

An'  that  ye'll  fin'. 

0  !  a'  ye  flocks  o'er  a'  the  hills. 

By  mosses,  meadows,  moors,  and  fells. 

Come,  join  your  counsel  and  your  skills 

To  cow  the  lairds. 
And  get  the  brutes  the  powers  themsels 

To  choose  their  herds ; 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance, 
And  Learning  in  a  woody  dance, 
And  that  fell  cur  ca'd  Common  Sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair, 
Be  banish'd  o'er  the  sea  to  France  : 

Let  him  bark  there. 

Then  Shaw's  and  Dalrymple's  eloquence, 
M'Gill's  close  nervous  excellence, 
M'Quhae's  pathetic  manly  sense. 

And  guid  M'Math, 
Wi'  Smith,  wha  thro'  the  heart  can  glance, 

May  a'  pack  aff. 


XVII. 

HOLY  WILLIE'S   PRAYER. 

"And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray." 

Pops. 

[Of  this  sarcastic  and  too  daring  poem  many  copieB  il 
manuscript  were  circulated  wliile  the  poet  lived,  tit 
thougli  not  unknown  or  unfelt  by  Currie,  it  conl'nued 
unpublislied  till  printed  by  Stewart  with  the  Jol.y 
Beggars,  in  1801.  Holy  Willie  was  a  small  farme" 
leading  elder  to  Auld,  a  name  well  known  to  all  loveri 
of  Burns;  austere  in  speech,  scrupulous  m  all  outward 
observances,  and,  what  is  known  by  the  name  of  a  "  pro- 
fessing Cliristirin."  He  experienced,  however,  a  "sore 
fall;"  he  permitted  liimself  to  be  "  filled  fou,"  and  in  a 
moment  when  "self  got  in"  made  free,  it  is  said,  with 
the  money  of  the  poor  of  the  parish.  His  name  was 
William  Fisher.] 

0  THOU,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel', 
Sends  ane  to  heaven,  and  ten  to  hell, 

A'  for  thy  glory, 
Ajid  no  for  ony  gude  or  ill 

They've  done  afore  thee ' 

1  bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might. 
Whan  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  nigh* 
That  I  am  here  afore  thy  sight, 

For  gifts  and  grace, 
A  burnin'  and  a  shinin'  light 

To  a'  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation. 
That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation, 
I  wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation, 

For  broken  laws. 
Five  thousand  years  'fore  my  creation. 

Thro'  Adam's  cause. 

When  frae  my  mither's  womb  I  fell, 
Thou  might  hae  plunged  me  in  hell. 
To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wall, 

In  burnin'  lake, 
Whar  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Cham'd  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here  a  chosen  sample ; 

To  show  thy  grace  is  great  and  ample  j 

I'm  here  a  pillar  in  thy  temple, 

Strong  as  a  rock, 
A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example, 

To  a'  thy  flock. 

But  yet,  0  Lord !  confess  I  must, 
At  times  I'm  fash'd  wi'  fleshly  lust ; 


so 


THE   POETICAL    WOftKS 


And  sometimes,  too,  -wV  warldly  trust, 
Vile  self  gets  in ; 

But  tliou  remembers  we  are  dust, 
Defil'd  in  sin. 

0  Lord !  yestreen  thou  kens,  vri'  Meg — 

Thy  par  Jon  I  sincerely  beg, 

0 !  niay't  ne'er  be  a  livin'  plague 

To  my  dishonour, 
An'  I'll  ne'er  lift  a  lawless  leg 

Again  upon  her. 

Besides,  I  farther  maun  allow, 

Wi'  Lizzie's  lass,  three  times  I  trow — 

But  Lord,  that  Friday  I  was  fou. 

When  I  came  near  her. 
Or  else,  thou  kens,  thy  servant  true 

Wad  ne'er  hae  steer'd  her. 

Maybe  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn. 

Beset  thy  servant  e'en  and  morn, 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turn, 

'Cause  he's  sae  gifted ; 
If  sae,  thy  han'  maun  e'en  be  borne 

Until  thou  lift  it. 

lord,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place. 
For  here  thou  hast  a  chosen  race : 
But  God  confound  their  stubborn  face. 

And  blast  their  name, 
Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace 

And  public  shame. 

Lord,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton's  deserts, 

He  drinks,  and  swears,  and  plays  at  carts. 

Yet  has  sae  mony  takin'  arts, 

Wi'  grit  and  sma', 
Frae  God's  ain  priests  the  people's  hearts 

He  steals  awa. 

An'  whan  we  chasten'd  him  therefore. 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore, 
As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

0'  laughin'  at  us ; — 
Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store. 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  pray'r, 

Against  the  presbyt'ry  of  Ayr ; 

Thy  strong  right  hand.  Lord,  mak  it  bare 

Upo'  their  heads, 
juord  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare. 

For  their  misdeeds. 

0  Lord  my  God,  that  glib-tongu'd  Aiken, 
My  very  heart  and  saul  are  quakin', 


To  think  how  we  stood  groanin',  shakin', 
And  swat  wi'  dread. 

While  Auld  wi'  hingin  lips  gaed  sneakin' 
And  hung  his  head. 

Lord,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him, 
Lord,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him. 
And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  'em. 

Nor  hear  their  pray'r ; 
But  for  thy  people's  sake  destroy  'em, 

And  dinna  spare. 

But,  Lord,  remember  me  an  mine, 
Wi'  mercies  temp'ral  and  divine, 
That  I  for  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 

Excell'd  by  nane. 
And  a'  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 

Amen,  Amen  I 


xvm. 

EPITAPH   ON  HOLY  WILLIE. 

[We  are  informed  by  Riclimond  of  Mauchline,  tliat 
when  he  was  clerk  in  Gavin  Hamilton's  office,  Burns  cam« 
in  one  morning  and  said,  "  I  have  just  composed  a  poem, 
John,  and  if  you  will  write  it,  I  will  repeat  it."  He 
repeated  Holy  Willie's  Prayer  and  Epitaph;  H.-smilton 
came  in  at  the  moment,  and  having  read  them  with  deliglit, 
ran  laughing  with  them  in  his  hand  to  Robert  Aiken. 
The  end  of  Holy  Willie  was  other  than  godly  :  in  one 
of  his  visits  to  Mauchline,  he  drank  more  than  was  need 
ful,  fell  into  a  ditch  on  his  way  home,  and  was  found 
dead  in  the  morning.] 

Here  Holy  Willie's  sair  worn  clay 

Takes  up  its  last  abode ; 
His  saul  has  ta'en  some  other  way, 

I  fear  the  left-hand  road. 

Stop  !  there  he  is,  as  sure's  a  gun. 

Poor,  silly  body,  see  him  ; 
Nae  wonder  he's  as  black's  the  grun, 

Observe  wha's  standing  wi'  him. 

Your  brunstane  devilship  I  see, 
Has  got  him  there  before  ye  ; 

But  baud  your  nine-tail  cat  a  wee. 
Till  ance  you've  heard  my  story. 

Your  pity  I  will  not  implore. 

For  pity  ye  hae  nane ; 
Justice,  alas !  has  gi'en  him  o'er, 

And  mercy's  day  is  gaen. 


OF   EGBERT    BURNS. 


81 


But  hear  me,  sir,  deil  as  ye  are, 

Ae  auld  wheelbarrow,  mair  for  token. 

Look  something  to  your  credit ; 

Ae  leg  an'  baith  the  trams  are  broken ; 

A  coof  like  Mm  wad  stain  your  name, 

I  made  a  poker  o'  the  spin'le, 

K  it  were  kent  ye  did  it. 

An'  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trin'le. 

XIX. 
THE   INVENTORY; 

iN   AN-'WEB.   TO   A   MANDATE    BY   THE    SURVEYOR 
OF  THE   TAXES. 

[We  have  heard  of  a  poor  play-actor  who,  by  a  humor- 
ous inventory  of  his  effects,  so  moved  the  commissioners 
of  the  incorae  tax,  that  they  remitted  all  claim  on  him 
then  and  for  ever ;  we  know  not  that  this  very  humorous 
inventory  of  Burns  had  any  such  effect  on  Mr.  Aiken,  the 
surveyor  of  the  taxes.  It  is  dated  "  Mossgiel,  February 
22d,  1786,"  and  is  remarkable  for  wit  and  sprightliness, 
and  for  the  information  which  it  gives  us  of  the  poet's 
habits,  household,  and  agricultural  implements.] 

Sir,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 
I  send  you  here  a  faithfu'  list, 
0'  gudes,  an'  gear,  an'  a'  my  graith, 
To  which  I'm  clear  to  gi'e  my  aith. 

Imprimis,  then,  for  carriage  cattle, 
I  have  four  brutes  o'  gallant  mettle, 
As  ever  drew  afore  a  pettle.. 
!My  Ian'  afore's^  a  gude  auld  has  been, 
An'  wight,  an'  wilfu'  a'  his  days  been. 
My  Ian  ahin's^  a  weel  gaun  fillie, 
That  aft  has  borne  me  hame  frae  Killie,' 
An'  your  auld  burro'  mony  a  time. 
In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime — 
But  ance,  whan  in  my  wooing  pride, 
I  like  a  blockhead  boost  to  ride. 
The  wilfu'  creature  sae  I  pat  to, 
(L — d  pardon  a'  my  sins  an'  that  too !) 
I  play'd  my  fillie  sic  a  shavie, 
She's  a'  bedevil'd  with  the  spavie. 
My  fur  ahin's"*  a  wordy  beast. 
As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  trac'd. 
The  fourth's  a  Highland  Donald  hastie, 
A  d — u'd  red  wud  Kilburnie  blastiel 
Forbye  a  cowt  o'  cowt's  the  wale. 
As  ever  ran  afore  a  tail. 
If  he  be  spar'd  to  be  a  beast, 
He'll  draw  me  fifteen  pun'  at  least. — 
Wheel  carriages  I  ha'e  but  few, 
Three  carts,  an'  twa  are  feckly  new ; 

>  The  fore-horse  on  the  left-hand  in  the  plough. 

>  Tiie  hindmost  on  the  left-hand  in  the  plough . 

6 


For  men  I've  three  mischievous  boys. 
Run  de'ils  for  rantin'  an'  for  noise  ; 
A  gaudsman  ane,  a  thrasher  t'other. 
Wee  Davock  bauds  the  nowt  in  fother. 
I  rule  them  as  I  ought,  discreetly, 
An'  aften  labour  them  completely ; 
An'  ay  on  Sundays,  duly,  nightly, 
I  on  the  Questions  targe  them  tightly ; 
Till,  faith,  wee  Davock's  turn'd  sae  gleg, 
Tho'  scarcely  langer  than  your  leg, 
He'll  screed  you  aflf  Effectual  calling. 
As  fast  as  ony  in  the  dwalling. 
I've  nane  in  female  servan'  station, 
(Lord  keep  me  ay  frae  a'  temptation !) 
I  ha'e  nae  wife — and  that  my  bliss  is. 
An'  ye  have  laid  nae  tax  on  misses ; 
An'  then,  if  kirk  folks  dinna  clutch  me, 
I  ken  the  devils  darena  touch  me. 
Wi'  weans  I'm  mair  than  weel  contented, 
Heav'n  sent  me  ane  mae  than  I  wanted. 
My  sonsie  smirking  dear-bought  Bess, 
She  stares  the  daddy  in  her  face, 
Enough  of  ought  ye  like  but  grace  ; 
But  her,  my  bonnie  sweet  wee  lady, 
I've  paid  enough  for  her  already. 
An'  gin  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither, 
B'  the  L — d !  ye'se  get  them  a'thegither. 

And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 
Nae  kind  of  license  out  I'm  takin' ; 
Frae  this  time  forth,  I  do  declare 
I'se  ne'er  ride  horse  nor  hizzie  mair; 
Thro'  dirt  and  dub  for  life  I'll  paidle, 
Ere  I  sae  dear  pay  for  a  saddle  ; 
My  travel  a'  on  foot  I'll  shank  it, 
I've  sturdy  bearers,  Gude  be  thankit. 
The  kirk  and  you  may  tak'  you  that, 
It  puts  but  little  in  your  pat ; 
Sae  dinna  put  me  in  your  buke. 
Nor  for  my  ten  white  shillings  luke. 

This  list  wi'  my  ain  hand  I  wrote  it, 
The  day  and  date  as  under  noted ; 
Then  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subacripsi  huic  Robert  Burns, 


8  Kilmarnock. 

4  The  hindmost  horse  on  the  right-hand  in  the  plough 


82 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


XX. 

THE  HOLY  FAIR. 

A  robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 

Hid  crafty  observation ; 
And  secret  hung,  with  poison'd  crust, 

The  dirk  of  Defamation  : 
A.  mask  that  like  the  gorget  sliow'd, 

Dye- varying  on  the  pigeon ; 
And  for  a  mantle  large  and  broad, 

He  wrapt  him  in  Religion. 

Hypocrisy  a-la-mode. 

[The  scene  of  this  fine  poem  is  the  churchyard  of 
Mau3hline,  and  the  subject  handled  so  cleverly  and 
sharply  is  the  laxity  orf"  manners  visible  in  matters  so 
eo  emn  and  terrible  as  the  administration  of  the  sacrament. 
"This  was  indeed,"  says  Lockhart,  "  an  extraordinary 
performance  :  no  partisan  of  any  sect  could  whisper  that 
malice  had  formed  its  principal  inspiration,  or  that  its 
chief  attraction  lay  in  the  boldness  with  which  indi- 
viduals, entitled  and  accustomed  to  respect,  were  held 
up  to  ridicule:  it  was  acknowledged,  amidst  the  sternest 
mutterings  of  wrath,  that  national  manners  were  once 
more  in  the  hands  of  a  national  poet."  "  It  is  no  doubt," 
says  Hogg,  "a  reckless  piece  of  satire,  but  it  is  a  clever 
one,  and  must  have  cut  to  the  bone.  But  much  as  I 
ac'mire  the  poem  I  must  regret  that  it  is  partly  borrowed 
frjra  Fergusson."] 

Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  morn, 

When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 
I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn, 

An'  snuff  the  caller  air. 
The  rising  sun  owre  Galston  muirs, 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin' ; 
The  hares  were  hirplin  down  the  furs. 

The  lav'rocks  they  were  chantin' 

Fu'  sweet  that  day. 

As  lightsomely  I  glowr'd  abroad, 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay, 
Three  hizzies,  early  at  the  road, 

Cam  skelpin  up  the  way ; 
Twa  had  manteeles  o'  dolefu'  black, 

But  ane  wi'  lyart  lining ; 
The  third,  that  gaed  a-wee  a-back. 

Was  in  the  fashion  shining 

Fu'  gay  that  day. 

The  twa  appear' d  like  sisters  twin. 

In  feature,  form,  an'  claes  ; 
Their  yisage,  wither' d,  lang,  an'  thin, 

An'  sour  as  ony  slaes : 
The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As  light  as  ony  lambie, 
An'  wi'  a  curchie  low  did  stoop, 

Aa  8oon  as  e'er  she  saw  me, 

Fu'  kind  that  day. 


Wi'  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I,  "Sweet  lass, 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me; 
I'm  sure  I've  seen  that  bonnie  face, 

But  yet  I  canna  name  ye." 
Quo'  she,  an'  laughin'  as  she  spak, 

An'  taks  me  by  the  hands, 
"Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gi'en  the  feck. 

Of  a'  the  ten  commands 

A  screed  some  day. 

"My  name  is  Fun — your  cronie  dear, 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae; 
An'  this  is  Superstition  here. 

An'  that's  Hypocrisy. 
I'm  gaun  to  Mauchline  holy  fair. 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daflfin : 
Gin  ye'll  go  there,  yon  runkl'd  pair, 

We  will  get  famous  laughin' 

At  them  this  day." 

Quoth  I,  "With  a'  my  heart  I'll  do't; 

I'll  get  my  Sunday's  sark  on, 
An'  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot; 

Faith,  we'se  hae  fine  remarkin' !" 
Then  I  gaed  hawie  at  crowdie-time 

An'  soon  I  made  me  ready ; 
For  roads  were  clad,  frae  side  to  side, 

Wi'  monie  a  wearie  body. 

In  droves  that  day. 

Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin'  graith 

Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cottars  ; 
There,  swankies  young,  in  braw  braid-claith. 

Are  springin'  o'er  the  gutters. 
The  lasses,  skelpin  barefit,  thrang. 

In  silks  an'  scarlets  glitter ; 
Wi'  sweet-milk  cheese,  in  monie  a  whang, 

An'  farls  bak'd  wi'  butter, 

Fu'  crump  that  day. 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi'  ha'pence, 
A  greedy  glowr  Black  Bonnet  throws, 

An'  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show. 

On  ev'ry  side  they're  gath'rin', 
Some  carrying  dails,  some  chairs  an'  steals, 

An'  some  are  busy  blethrin' 

Right  l«ud  that  day. 

Here  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  show'rs. 

An'  screen  our  countra  gentry. 
There,  racer  Jess,  and  twa-three  wh-res, 

Are  blinkin'  at  the  entry. 


OF   llOBEKT    BURNS. 


8d 


Here  sits  a  raw  of  titlin'  jades, 
Wi*  heaving  breast  and  bare  neck, 

An'  there  a  batch  o'  wabster  lads, 
Blackguarding  frae  Kilmarnock 
For  fun  this  day. 

Here  some  are  thinkin'  on  their  sins, 

An'  Bome  upo'  their  claes ; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  fyl'd  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  an'  prays  : 
On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch, 

Wi'  screw'd  up  grace-proud  faces ; 
On  that  a  set  o'  chaps  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin'  on  the  lasses 

To  chairs  that  day. 

0  happy  is  that  man  an'  blest ! 

Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him ! 
Wha's  ain  dear  lass  that  he  likes  best, 

Comes  clinkin'  down  beside  him ; 
Wi'  arm  repos'd  on  the  chair  back. 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him ; 
Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 

An's  loof  upon  her  bosom, 

Unkenn'd  that  day. 

Now  a'  the  congregation  o'er 

Is  silent  expectation : 
For  Moodie  speels  the  holy  door, 

Wi'  tidings  o'  damnation. 
Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

'Mang  sons  o'  God  present  him, 
The  vera  sight  o'  Hoodie's  face, 

To's  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o'  faith 

Wi'  ratlin'  an'  wi'  thumpiu' ! 
Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath, 

He's  stampin  an'  he's  jumpin'  I 
His  lengthen'd  chin,  his  turn'd-up  snout, 

His  eldritch  squeel  and  gestures. 
Oh,  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout. 

Like  cantharidian  plasters. 
On  sic  a  day. 

But  hark !  the  tent  has  chang'd  its  voice  : 

There's  peace  an'  rest  nae  langer : 
For  a'  the  real  judges  rise. 

They  canna  sit  for  anger. 
Smith  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues, 

On  practice  and  on  morals ; 
An'  aflf  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs, 

Td  gie  the  jars  an'  barrels 

A  lift  that  day. 


What  signifies  his  barren  shine. 

Of  moral  pow'rs  and  reason  ? 
His  English  style,  an'  gestures  fine, 

Are  a'  clean  out  o^  season. 
Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  heathen. 
The  moral  man  he  does  define. 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  faith  in 

That's  right  that  day. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 

Against  sic  poison'd  nostrum ; 
For  Peebles,  frae  the  water-fit. 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum : 
See,  up  he's  got  the  word  o'  God, 

An'  meek  an'  mim  has  view'd  it. 
While  Common-Sense  has  ta'en  the  road, 

An'  aff,  an'  up  the  Cowgate,* 

Fast,  fast,  that  day. 

Wee  Miller,  neist  the  guard  relieves, 

An'  orthodoxy  raibles, 
Tho'  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes. 

An'  thinks  it  auld  wives'  fables : 
But  faith !  the  birkie  wants  a  manse, 

So,  cannily  he  hums  them  ; 
Altho'  his  carnal  wit  an'  sense 

Likehafliins-wayso'ercomes  him 
At  times  that  day. 

Now  but  an'  ben,  the  Change-house  fills 

Wi'  yill-caup  commentators : 
Here's  crying  out  for  bakes  and  gills. 

An'  there  the  pint-stowp  clatters ; 
While  thick  an'  thrang,  an'  loud  an'  lang, 

Wi'  logic,  an'  wi'  scripture. 
They  raise  a  din,  that,  in  the  end. 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

0'  wrath  that  day. 

Leeze  me  on  drink !  it  gies  us  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college  : 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair. 

It  pangs  us  fou'  o'  knowledge. 
Be't  whisky  gill,  or  penny  whetp, 

Or  ony  stronger  potion. 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep, 

To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

The  lads  an'  lasses,  blythely  bent 

To  mind  baith  saul  an'  body, 
Sit  round  the  table,  weel  content. 

An'  steer  about  the  toddy. 


1  A  stioet  so  called,  which  faces  the  teat  in  MauchJnd. 


84 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


On  this  ane's  dress,  an'  that  ane's  leuk, 

They're  making  observations ; 
While  some  are  cozie  i'  the  neuk, 

An'  formin'  assignations 

To  meet  some  day. 

But  now  the  Lord's  ain  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairin', 
An'  echoes  back  return  the  shouts : 

Black  Russell  is  na'  sparin' : 
His  piercing  words,  like  Highlan'  swords, 

Divide  the  joints  and  marrow  ; 
His  talk  o'  Hell,  where  devils  dAvell, 

Our  vera  sauls  does  harrow' 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

A  vast,  unbottom'd  boundless  pit, 

Fill'd  fou  o'  lowin'  brunstane, 
Wha's  ragin'  flame,  an'  scorchin'  heat, 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  whun-stane  ! 
The  half  asleep  start  up  wi'  fear, 

An'  think  they  hear  it  roarin', 
When  presently  it  does  appear, 

'Twas  but  some  neibor  snorin' 
Asleep  that  day. 

'Twad  be  owre  lang  a  tale  to  tell 

How  monie  stories  past. 
An'  how  they  crowded  to  the  yill, 

When  they  were  a'  dismist: 
How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  an'  caups, 

Amang  the  furms  an'  benches  : 
An'  cheese  an'  bread,  frae  women's  laps, 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches. 

An'  dawds  that  day. 

In  comes  a  gaucie,  gash  guidwife. 

An'  sits  down  by  the  fire. 
Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  an'  her  knife  ; 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 
The  auld  guidmen,  about  the  grace, 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother, 
Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays. 

An'  gi'es  them't  like  a  tether, 

Fu'  lang  that  day. 

Waesucks !  for  him  that  gets  nae  lass, 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething ; 
Sma'  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace, 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claithing !     * 
0  wives,  be  mindfu'  ance  yoursel 

How  bonnie  lads  ye  wanted, 

'  Shakspeare's  Hamlet, 

«  Alluding  to  a  scoffing  ballad  vehich  was  made  on  the 


An'  dinna,  for  a  kebbuck-heel. 
Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day ! 

Now  Clinkumbell,  wi'  ratlin  tow. 

Begins  to  jow  an'  croon; 
Some  swagger  hame,  the  best  they  dow. 

Some  wait  the  afternoon. 
At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a  blink. 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon : 
Wi'  faith  an'  hope,  an'  love  an'  drink. 

They're  a'  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  day. 

How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts 

0'  sinners  and  o'  lasses ! 
Their  hearts  o'  stane,  gin  night,  are  gane, 

As  saft  as  ony  flesh  is. 
There's  some  are  fou  o'  love  divine  ; 

There's  some  are  fou  o'  brandy; 
An'  monie  jobs  that  day  begin 

May  end  in  houghmagandie 

Some  ither  day. 


XXI. 

THE   ORDINATION. 

"  For  sense  they  little  owe  to  frugal  heav'n — 
To  please  the  mob  they  hide  the  little  giv'n." 

[This  sarcastic  sally  was  written  on  the  admission  of 
Mr.  Mackinlay,  as  one  of  the  ministers  to  the  Laigh,  oi 
parochial  Kirk  of  Kilmarnock,  on  the  6th  of  April,  1786 
That  reverend  person  was  an  Auld  Light  professor,  and 
his  ordination  incensed  all  the  New  Lights,  hence  the 
bitter  levity  of  the  poem.  These  dissensions  liave  long 
since  past  away:  IVrackinlay,  a  pious  and  kind-hearted 
sincere  man,  lived  down  all  the  personalities  of  the  satire, 
and  though  unwelcome  at  first,  he  soon  learned  to  regard 
them  only  as  a  proof  of  the  powers  of  the  poet.] 

Kilmarnock  wabsters  fidge  an'  claw, 

An'  pour  your  creeshie  nations  ; 
An'  ye  wha  leather  rax  an'  draw. 

Of  a'  denominations, 
Swith  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  an'  a', 

An'  there  tak  up  your  stations ; 
Then  aff  to  Begbie's  in  a  raw, 

An'  pour  divine  libations 

For  joy  this  day. 

Curst  Common-Sense,  that  imp  o'  hell, 
Cam  in  wi'  Maggie  Lauder  ;^ 


admission  of  the  late  reverend  and  worthy  Mr.  Lindsay 
to  the  Laigh  Kirk, 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                          85 

But  Oliphant  aft  made  her  yell, 

Come,  screw  the  pegs,  wi'  tunefu'  cheep. 

An'  Russell  sair  misca'd  her ; 

And  o'er  the  thairms  be  tryin' ; 

This  day  Mackinlay  taks  the  flail, 

Oh,  rare !  to  see  our  elbucks  wheep, 

Ani  he's  the  boy  will  blaud  her  I 

An'  a'  like  lamb-tails  flyin' 

He'll  clap  a  shangan  on  her  tail, 

Fu'  fast  this  day  I 

An'  set  the  bairns  to  daud  her 

Wi'  dirt  this  day. 

Lang  Patronage,  wi'  rod  o'  airn. 

Has  shor'd  the  Kirk's  undoin'. 

Mak  haste  an'  turn  king  David  owre, 

As  lately  Fenwick,  sair  forfaim. 

An'  lilt  wi'  holy  clangor ; 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin : 

0'  double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

Our  patron,  honest  man !  Glencaim, 

An'  skirl  up  the  Bangor  : 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin'  ; 

This  day  the  Kirk  kicks  up  a  stoure, 

And  like  a  godly  elect  bairn 

Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her. 

He's  wal'd  us  out  a  true  ane. 

For  Heresy  is  in  her  pow'r, 

And  sound  this  day. 

And  gloriously  she'll  whang  her 

Wi'  pith  this  day. 

Now,  Robinson,  harangue  nae  mair. 

But  steek  your  gab  for  ever : 

Come,  let  a  proper  text  be  read, 

Or  try  the  wicked  town  of  Ayr, 

An'  touch  it  aff  wi'  vigour. 

For  there  they'll  think  you  clever ; 

How  graceless  Ham*  leugh  at  his  dad, 

Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear, 

Which  made  Canaan  a  niger ; 

Ye  may  commence  a  shaver ; 

Or  Phineas^  drove  the  murdering  blade. 

Or  to  the  Netherton  repair. 

Wi'  wh-re-abhorring  rigour ; 

And  turn  a  carpet-weaver 

Or  Zipporah,8  the  scauldin'  jad. 

Aflf-hand  this  day. 

Was  like  a  bluidy  tiger 

I'  th'  inn  that  day. 

Mutrie  and  you  were  just  a  match, 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones : 

There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  creed, 

Auld  Hornie  did  the  Laigh  Kirk  watch, 

And  bind  him  down  wi'  caution, 

Just  like  a  winkin'  baudrons  : 

That  stipend  is  a  carnal  weed 

And  ay'  he  catch' d  the  tither  wretch. 

He  taks  but  for  the  fashion ; 

To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons ; 

And  gie  him  o'er  the  flock,  to  feed, 

But  now  his  honour  maun  detach. 

And  punish  each  transgression ; 

Wi'  a'  his  brimstane  squadrons, 

Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Fast,  fast  this  day. 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin'. 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy's  faes 
She's  swingein'  through  the  city ; 

Now,  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy  tail. 

Hark,  how  the  nine-tail'd  cat  she  plays! 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu'  canty ; 

I  vow  it's  unco  pretty : 

Nae  mair  thou'lt  rowte  out-owre  the  dale, 

There,  Learning,  with  his  Greekish  face^ 

Because  thy  pasture's  scanty ; 

Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty ; 

For  lapfu's  large  o'  gospel  kail 

And  Common  Sense  is  gaun,  she  says. 

Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty, 

To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie 

An'  runts  o'  grace  the  pick  and  w&!e. 

Her  plaint  this  day. 

No  gi'en  by  way  o'  dainty. 

But  ilka  day. 

But  there's  Morality  himsel'. 
Embracing  all  opinions ; 

Nae  mair  by  Babel's  streams  we'll  weep, 

Hear,  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell. 

To  think  upon  our  Zion ; 

Between  his  twa  companions  ; 

And  hing  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

See,  how  she  peels  the  skin  an'  fell, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin' : 

As  ane  were  peelin'  onions ! 

Now  there — they're  packed  aff  to  hell, 
And  banished  our  dominions, 

I  Genesia,  ix.  22.               2  Numbers,  xxv.  8. 

SEalus,  iv.  2j. 

Henceforth  this  day. 

86 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


0,  liappy  day !  rejoice,  rejoice  I 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter  1 
Morality's  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  find  quarter : 
Mackinlay,  Russell,  are  the  boys, 

That  Heresy  can  torture : 
They'll  gie  her  on  a  rape  a  hoyse, 

And  cowe  her  measure  shorter 

By  th'  head  some  day. 

Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in, 

And  here's  for  a  conclusion, 
To  every  New  Light'  mother's  son, 

From  this  time  forth  Confusion : 
If  mair  they  deave  us  wi'  their  din, 

Or  Patronage  intrusion. 
We'll  light  a  spunk,  and  ev'ry  skin, 

We'll  rin  them  aff  in  fusion 

Like  oil,  some  day. 


XXII. 
THE   CALF. 

TO   THE   KEV.   MB.   JAMES    STEVEN, 

On  his  text,  Malachi,  iv.  2.— "And  ye  shall  go  forth, 
and  grow  up  as  Calves  of  the  stall." 

[The  "augh  wnich  this  little  poem  raised  against 
Steven  was  a  loud  one.  Burns  composed  it  during  the 
sermon  to  which  it  relates  and  repeated  it  to  Gavin 
Hamilton,  with  whom  he  happened  on  that  day  to  dine. 
The  Calf— for  the  name  it  seems  stuck — came  to  Lon- 
don, where  the  younger  brother  of  Burns  heard  him 
preach  in  Covent  Garden  Chapel,  in  1790.] 

Right,  Sir !  your  text  I'll  prove  it  true, 

Though  Heretics  may  laugh ; 
For  instance ;  there's  yourseP  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  unco  Calf! 

And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind, 

As  bless  you  wi'  a  kirk, 
I  doubt  na.  Sir,  but  then  we'll  find, 

Ye're  still  as  great  a  Stirk. 

But,  if  the  lover's  raptur'd  hour 

Shall  ever  be  your  lot. 
Forbid  it,  ev'ry  heavenly  power, 

You  e'er  should  be  a  stot! 


1  <«  New  Light"  is  a  cant  phrase  in  the  West  of  Scot- 
and,  for  those  religious  opinions  which  Dr.  Taylor  of 
Norwirth  has  defended. 


Tho',  when  some  kind,  connubial  dear, 

Your  but-and-ben  adorns. 
The  like  has  been  that  you  may  wear 

A  noble  head  of  horns. 

And  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James, 
To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte, 

Few  men  o'  sense  will  doubt  your  claims 
To  rank  amang  the  nowte. 

And  when  ye're  number'd  wi'  the  dead, 

Below  a  grassy  hillock, 
Wi'  justice  they  may  mark  your  head — 

"  Here  lies  a  famous  Bullock!" 


XXIII. 

TO  JAMES   SMITH. 

"  Friendship  !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ! 
Sweet'ner  of  life  and  solder  of  society  ! 
I  owe  thee  much ! — " 

Blair. 

[The  James  Smith,  to  whom  this  epistle  is  addressed, 
was  at  that  time  a  small  shopkeeper  in  Mauchline,  and 
the  comrade  or  rather  follower  of  the  poet  m  all  his 
merry  expeditions  with  "  Yill-caup  commentators."  Ha 
was  present  in  Posie  Nansie's  when  the  Jolly  Beggari 
&  st  dawned  on  the  fancy  of  Burns :  the  comrades  of  ti.e 
poet's  heart  were  not  generally  very  successful  in  life  : 
Smith  left  Mauchline,  and  established  a  calico-printing 
manufactory  at  Avon  near  Linlithgow,  where  his  friend 
found  him  in  all  appearance  prosperous  in  1788 :  bat  tliii 
was  not  to  last ;  he  failed  in  his  speculations  and  went 
to  the  West  Indies,  and  died  early.  His  wit  was  ready^ 
and  his  manners  lively  and  unaffected.] 

Dear  Smith,  the  sleest,  paukie  thief, 
That  e'er  attempted  stealth  or  rief, 
Ye  surely  hae  some  warlock-breef 

Owre  human  hearts , 
For  ne'er  a  bosom  yet  was  prief 

Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  an'  moon. 
And  ev'ry  star  that  blinks  aboon. 
Ye  7e  cost  me  twenty  pair  o'  shoon 

Just  gaun  to  see  you ; 
And  ev'ry  ither  pair  that's  done, 

Mair  ta'en  I'm  wi'  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carlin,  Nature, 
To  mak  amends  for  scrimpit  stature, 
She's  turn'd  you  aff,  a  human  creature 

On  her  first  plan ; 
And  in  her  freaks,  on  every  feature 

She's  wrote,  the  Man. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                          87 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 

This  life,  sae  far's  I  understand. 

My  barmie  noddle's  working  prime, 

Is  a'  enchanted  fairy  land, 

My  fancy  yerkit  it  up  sublime 

Where  pleasure  is  the  magic  wand. 

Wi'  hasty  summon : 

That,  wielded  right, 

Ha«  7«  a  leisure-moment's  tiine 

Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand. 

To  hear  what's  comin'  ? 

Dance  by  fu'  light. 

Somo  rhyme  a  neighbour's  name  to  lash ; 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield ; 

Some  rhyme  (vain  thought!)  for  needfu'  cash: 

For,  ance  that  five-an'-forty's  speel'd, 

Some  rhyme  to  court  the  countra  clash. 

See  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

An'  raise  a  din ; 

Wi'  wrinkl'd  face. 

For  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash ; 

Comes  hostin',  hirplin',  owre  the  field. 

I  rhyme  for  fun. 

Wi'  creepin'  pace. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 

When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin', 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat. 

Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin' ; 

An'  damn'd  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

An'  fareweel  cheerfu'  tankards  foamin', 

But  in  requit, 

An'  social  noise ; 

Has  blest  me  with  a  random  shot 

An'  fareweel  dear,  deluding  woman ! 

0'  countra  wit. 

The  joy  of  joys  I 

This  while  my  notion's  ta'en  a  sklent, 

0  Life !  how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 

To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  prent ; 

Young  Fancy's  rays  the  hills  adorning ! 

But  still  the  mair  I'm  that  way  bent, 

Cold-pausing  Caution's  lesson  scorning^ 

Something  cries  "  Hooliel 

We  frisk  away. 

I  red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent ! 

Like  school-boys,  at  th'  expected  warning, 

Ye'll  shaw  your  folly. 

To  joy  and  play. 

**  There's  ither  poets  much  your  betters. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here,       \ 
We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier. 

Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o»  letters. 

Hae  thought  they  had  ensur'd  their  debtors, 

Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near. 

A'  future  ages : 

Among  the  leaves ; 

Now  moths  deform  in  shapeless  tatters. 

And  tho'  the  puny  wound  appear. 

Their  unknown  pages." 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

Then  farewell  hopes  o'  laurel-boughs, 

Some,  lucky,  find  a  flow'ry  spot. 

To  garland  my  poetic  brows ! 

For  which  they  never  toil'd  nor  swat ; 

Henceforth  I'll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 

They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat, 

Are  whistling  thrang, 

But  care  or  pain ; 

An'  teach  the  lanely  heights  an'  howes 

And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

My  rustic  sang. 

With  high  disdain. 

I'll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 

With  steady  aim  some  Fortune  chase; 

How  never-halting  moments  speed. 

Keen  hope  does  ev'ry  sinew  brace ; 

Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread ; 

Thro'  fair,  thro'  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 

Then,  all  unknown, 

And  seize  the  prey ; 

I'll  lay  me  with  th'  inglorious  dead, 

Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place. 

Forgot  and  gone ! 

They  close  the  day 

But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 

And  others,  like  your  humble  servan'. 

Just  now  we're  living  sound  and  hale, 

Poor  wights  !  nae  rules  nor  roads  observin' : 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail. 

To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin'. 

Heave  care  o'er  side  1 

They  zig-zag  on; 

And  large,  before  enjoyment's  gale. 

'Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  an'  starvin', 

Let's  tak  the  tide. 

They  aften  £n^oan. 

88 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Alas !  what  bitter  toil  an'  straining — 
liut  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining ! 
Is  fortune's  fickle  Luna  waning  ? 

E'en  let  her  gang ! 
Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let's  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door. 

And  kneel,  "Ye  Pow'rs,"  and  warm  implore, 

♦'  Tho'  I  should  wander  terra  e'er, 

In  all  her  climes, 
Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more, 

Ay  rowth  o'  rhymes. 

*  Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  countra  lairds, 
Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards ; 
Gie  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life-guards, 

And  maids  of  honour ! 
And  yill  an'  whisky  gie  to  cairds, 

Until  they  sconner. 

*' A  title,  Dempster  merits  it; 

A  garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt ; 

Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledger'd  cit. 

In  cent,  per  cent. 
But  give  me  real,  sterling  wit. 

And  I'm  content. 

"While  ye  are  pleas'd  to  keep  me  hale, 
I'll  sit  down  o'er  my  scanty  meal, 
Be't  water-brose,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi'  cheerfu'  face, 
As  lang's  the  muses  dinna  fail 

To  say  the  grace." 

An  anxious  e'e  I  never  throws 
Behint  my  lug,  or  by  my  nose ; 
I  jouk  beneath  misfortune's  blows 

As  weel's  I  may ; 
Sworn  foe  to  sorrow,  care,  and  prose, 

I  rhyme  away. 

0  ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compar'd  wi'  you — 0  fool !  fool !  fool ! 

How  much  unlike ! 
Your  hearts  are  just  a  standing  pool, 

Your  lives  a  dyke ' 

Nae  hair-brain'd,  sentimental  traces, 
In  your  unletter'd  nameless  faces  ! 
In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray, 
But  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 

Ye  hum  away. 


Ye  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye're  wise; 

Nae  ferly  tho'  ye  do  despise 

The  hairum-scarum,  ram-stam  boys, 

The  rattling  squad: 
I  see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes — 

Ye  ken  the  road — 

Whilst  I — but  I  shall  baud  me  there — 
Wi'  you  I'll  scarce  gang  ony  where — 
Then,  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  mair. 

But  quat  my  sang, 
Content  wi'  you  to  mak  a  pair, 

Whare'er  I  gang. 


XXIV. 
THE   VISION. 

DUAN   FIRST.' 


[The  Vision  and  the  Briggs  of  Ayr,  are  said  by  Jeffrey 
to  be  ''  the  only  pieces  by  Burns  which  c-in  be  classed 
under  the  head  of  pure  fiction:"  but  Tam  o'  Shanter 
and  twenty  other  of  his  compositions  have  an  equa* 
right  to  be  classed  with  works  of  fiction.  The  edit. /n 
of  this  poem  published  at  Kilmaruock,  differs  in  som* 
particulars  from  the  edition  which  followed  in  Edin- 
burgh. The  maiden  whose  foot  was  so  handsome  as  to 
match  that  of  Coila,  was  a  Bess  at  first,  but  old  affection 
triumphed,  and  Jean,  for  whom  the  honour  was  from 
the  first  designed,  regained  her  place.  The  robe  of 
Coila,  too,  was  expanded,  so  far  indeed  that  she  got 
more  cloth  than  she  could  well  carry.] 

The  sun  had  clos'd  the  winter  day. 
The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play, 
An'  hunger'd  maukin  ta'en  her  way 

To  kail-yards  green. 
While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 

Whare  she  has  been. 

The  thresher's  weary  flingin'-tree 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me  ; 
And  when  the  day  had  clos'd  his  e'e 

Far  i'  the  west, 
Ben  i'  the  spence,  right  pensivelie, 

I  gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle-cheek, 
I  sat  and  ey'd  the  spewing  reek. 
That  fill'd,  wi'  hoast-provoking  smeek, 

The  auld  clay  biggin' ; 
An'  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 

About  the  riggin'. 


1  Duan,  a  term  of  Ossian's  for  the  different  divisioM 
of  a  digressive  poem.  See  his  "  Cath-Loda,"  vol.  ii.of 
Macpherson's  translation. 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS.                                        89 

All  in  this  mottle,  misty  clime, 

And  such  a  leg !  my  bonnie  Jean 

I  backward  mused  on  wastet  time, 

Could  only  peer  it ; 

.   How  I  had  spent  my  youthfu'  prime, 

Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean. 

An'  done  nae  thing, 

Nane  else  came  near  it. 

But  stringin'  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue, 

My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew ; 

Had  I  to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 

Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling,  threw 

I  might,  by  this  hae  led  a  market, 

A  lustre  grand ; 

Or  strutted  in  a  bank  an'  clarkit 

And  seem'd  to  my  astonish'd  view. 

My  cash-account: 

A  well-known  land. 

While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkit, 

Is  a'  th'  amount. 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 

There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost  : 

I  started,  mutt'ring,  blockhead !  coof  I 

Here,  tumbling  billows  mark'd  the  coast, 

And  heav'd  on  high  my  waukit  loof, 

With  surging  foam ; 

To  swear  by  a'  yon  starry  roof. 

There,  distant  shone  Art's  lofty  boast, 

Or  some  rash  aith, 

The  lordly  dome. 

That  I,  henceforth,  would  be  rhyme-proof 

TiU  my  last  breath — 

Here,  Doon  pour'd  down  hisfar-fetch'd  floods ; 

There,  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds : 

When,  click !  the  string  the  snick  did  draw : 

Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro'  his  woods, 

And,  jee !  the  door  gaed  to  the  wa' ; 

On  to  the  shore ; 

An'  by  my  ingle-lowe  I  saw. 

And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds. 

Now  bleezin'  bright, 

With  seeming  roar 

A  tight  outlandish  hizzie,  braw 

Come  full  in  sight. 

Low,  in  a  sandy  valley  spread. 

An  ancient  borough  rear'd  her  head ; 

Ye  need  na  doubt,  I  held  my  wisht ; 

Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read. 

The  infant  aith,  half-form' d,  was  crusht ; 

She  boasts  a  race, 

I  glowr'd  as  eerie's  I'd  been  dusht 

To  ev'ry  nobler  virtue  bred. 

In  some  wild  glen ; 

And  polish'd  grace. 

When  sweet,  like  modest  worth,  she  blusht, 

And  stepped  ben. 

By  stately  tow'r,  or  palace  fair, 

Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 

Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

Were  twisted,  gracefu',  round  her  brows, 

I  could  discern ; 

I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

Some  seem'd  to  muse,  some  seem'd  to  dare, 

By  that  same  token ; 

With  feature  stern. 

An'  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Wou'd  soon  be  broken. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel, 

To  see  a  race'  heroic  wheel, 

A  "  hair-brainM,  sentimental  trace" 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dy'd  steel 

Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face ; 

In  sturdy  blows ; 

A  wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

While  back-recoiling  seem'd  to  reel 

Shone  full  upon  her : 

Their  southron  foes. 

Her  eyy  ev'n  turn'd  on  empty  space. 

Beam'd  keen  with  honour. 

His  Country's  Saviour,*  mark  him  "well ' 

Bold  Richardton's8  heroic  swell ; 

Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen, 

The  chief  on  Sark-*  who  glorious  fell, 

'Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen : 

In  high  command ; 

I  The  Wallaces. 

mand  under  Douglas,  Earl  of  Ormond,  at  the  famou* 

»  Sir  William  Wallace. 

battle  on  the  banks  of  Sark,  fought  anno  1448.    Thai 

SAdiim  AVallace,  of  Richardton,  cousin  to  the  immor- 

glorious  victory  was  principally  owia^  to  the  judicious 

ki  preserver  of  Scottish  independence. 

conduct  and  intrepid  valour  of  the  gallant  laird  of  Craigie, 

"Wallace.  Laird  of  Craigie,  who  was  second  in  com- 

who  died  of  his  wounds  alter  the  action 

DO                                    THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

And  He  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 

Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 

His  native  land. 

Harmoniously, 

As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 

There,  where  a  sceptr'd  Pictish  shade^ 

Their  labours  ply. 

Stalk'd  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 

I  mark'd  a  martial  race  portray'd 

"  They  Scotia's  race  among  them  share ; 

In  colours  strong ; 

Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare ; 

Bold,  soldier-featur'd,  undismay'd 

Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 

They  strode  along. 

Corruption's  heart. 

Some  teach  the  bard,  a  darling  care, 

Thro'  many  a  wild  romantic  grove,^ 

The  tuneful  art. 

Near  many  a  hermit-fancy'd  cove. 

(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love,) 
In  musing  mood, 

"  'Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gore, 

They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits,  pour ; 

An  aged  judge,  I  saw  him  rove, 

Or  'mid  the  venal  senate's  roar. 

Dispensing  good. 

They,  sightless,  stand, 

With  deep-struck,  reverential  awe,3 

To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore, 

The  learned  sire  and  son  I  saw, 

And  grace  the  hand 

To  Nature's  God  and  Nature's  law 

They  gave  their  lore, 
This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw ; 

"  And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage. 

Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age, 

That,  to  adore. 

They  bind  the  wild,  poetic  rage 

In  energy, 

Brydone's  brave  ward^  I  well  could  spy. 

Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 

Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eye  ; 

Full  on  the  eye. 

Who  call'd  on  Fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on, 

"  Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young; 

Where  many  a  Patriot-name  on  high 

Hence  Dempster's  zeal-inspired  tongue ; 

And  hero  shone. 

Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beattie  sung 

His  '  Minstrel'  lays ; 

Or  tore,  with  noble  ardour  stung, 

The  sceptic's  bays. 

DUAN    SECOND. 

With  musing-deep,  astonish'd  stare, 

"  To  lower  orders  are  assign' d 

I  view'd  the  heavenly-seeming  fair ; 

The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind, 

A  whisp'ring  throb  did  witness  bear 
Of  kindred  sweet, 

The  rustic  bard,  the  lab'ring  hind. 
The  artisan ; 

When  with  an  elder  sister's  air 

All  choose,  as  various  they're  inclin'd 

She  did  me  greet. 

The  various  man. 

"  All  hail !  My  own  inspired  bard  I 

"When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain. 

m  me  thy  native  Muse  regard ! 

The  threat'ning  storm  some,  strongly,  rein ; 

Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain, 

Thus  poorly  low  I 

With  tillage-skill ; 

I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward 

And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train. 

As  we  bestow. 

Blythe  o'er  the  hill. 

**  Know,  the  great  genius  of  this  land, 

"  Some  hint  the  lover's  harmless  wile; 

Has  many  a  light  aerial  band, 

Some  grace  the  maiden's  artless  smile ; 

1  Coilus,  king  of  tlie  Picts,  from  whom  the  district  of 

(Sir  Thomas  Miller  of  Glenlee,  afterwards  President  ol 

Kyle  is  said  to  take  its  name,  lies  buried,  as  tradition 

the  Court  of  Session.) 

Bays,  near  the  family  seat  of  the  Montgomeries  of  Coils- 

3  Catrine,  the  seat  of  Professor  Dugald  Stewart. 

field,  wliere  his  burial-place  is  still  shown. 

4  Colonel  Fullarton. 

'Barskimming,  the  seat  of  the  late  Lord  Justice-Clerk 

OF  KOBERT  BURNS. 


91 


Some  soothe  the  lab'rer's  weary  toil, 
For  humble  gains, 

And  make  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 
His  cares  and  pains. 

"  Some,  bounded  to  a  district-space, 
Explore  at  large  man's  infant  race, 
To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Of  rustic  bard : 
And  careful  note  each  op'ning  grace, 

A  guide  and  guard. 

«*  Of  these  am  I — Coila  my  name ; 
And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim, 
Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fami^ 

Held  ruling  pow'r : 
I  mark'd  thy  embryo-tuneful  flame. 

Thy  natal  hour. 

"  With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gaze. 

Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 

Thy  rudely  carroll'd,  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 
Fir'd  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 

*•  1  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore. 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar  ; 
Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky, 
I  saw  grim  Nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

"  Or  when  the  deep  green-mantled  earth 
Warm  cherish'd  ev'ry  flow'ret's  birth. 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  ev'ry  grove, 
"^  saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

"When  ripen'd  fields,  and  azure  skies, 
Called  forth  the  reaper's  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys. 

And  lonely  stalk, 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

"  When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strong, 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along. 
Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Th'  adored  Name 
I  taught  *hee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 


**  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Wild  send  thee  pleasure's  devious  way, 
Misled  by  Fancy's  meteor-ray. 

By  passion  driven ; 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Heaven. 

"I  taught  thy  manners-painting  strains, 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 
Till  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  fame  extends ; 
And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila's  plains, 

Become  thy  friends. 

"  Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I  show, 
To  paint  with  Thomson's  landscape  glow  j 
Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe. 

With  Shenstone's  art : 
Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow. 

Warm  on  the  heart. 

"Yet,  all  beneath  the  unrivall'd  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows ; 

Tho'  large  the  forest's  monarch  throws 

His  army  shade, 
Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows, 

Adown  the  glade 

"  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine ; 
Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine  • 
And,  trust  me,  not  Potosi's  mine, 

Nor  king's  regard^ 
Can  give  a  bliss  o'ermatching  thine, 

A  rustic  bard. 

"To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one. 
Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan ; 
Preserve  the  dignity  of  man. 

With  soul  erect ; 
And  trust,  the  universal  plan 

WiU  all  protect. 

"And  wear  thou  this," — she  solemn  said, 
And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head : 
The  polish'd  leaves  and  berries  red 

Did  rustling  play ; 
And  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 

In  light  away. 


92 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


XXV. 

HALLOWEEN.! 

»'  Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art." 
Goldsmith. 

[Tliis  Poem  contains  a  lively  and  striking  picture  of 
some  of  the  superstitious  observances  of  old  Scotland : 
on  Iliilloween  the  desire  to  look  into  futurity  was  once 
all  but  universal  in  the  north;  and  the  charms  and  spells 
which  Burns  describes,  form  but  a  portion  of  those 
employed  to  enable  the  peasantry  to  have  a  peep  up  the 
dark  vista  of  the  future.  The  scene  is  laid  on  the  romantic 
shores  of  Ayr,  at  a  farmer's  fireside,  and  the  actors  in  the 
rustic  drama  are  the  whole  household,  including  super- 
numerary reapers  and  bandsmen  about  to  be  discharged 
from  the  engngements  of  harvest.  "  I  never  can  help 
regarding  this,"  says  James  Hogg,  "  as  rather  a  trivial 
poem!"] 

Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light 

On  Cassilis  Downans^  dance, 
Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance ; 
Or  for  Colean  the  rout  is  ta'en, 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams ; 
There,  up  the  Cove,^  to  stray  an'  rove 

Amang  the  rocks  an'  streams 

To  sport  that  night. 

Amang  the  bonnie  winding  banks 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin',  clear, 
Where  Bruce*  ance  rul'd  the  martial  ranks. 

An'  shook  his  Carrick  spear, 
Some  merry,  friendly,  countra  folks, 

Together  did  convene, 
To  burn  their  nits,  an'  pou  their  stocks. 

An'  haud  their  Halloween 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 

1  Is  thought  to  be  a  night  when  witches,  devils,  and 
other  mischief-making  beings  are  all  abroad  on  their 
baneful  midnight  errands:  particularly  those  atrial  people, 
the  Fairies,  are  said  on  that  night  to  hold  a  grand  anni- 
versary. 

2  Certain  little,  romantic,  rocky  green  hills,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Earls  of  Cassilis. 

3  A  noted  cavern  near  Colean-house,  called  the  Cove 
of  Colean  which,  as  well  as  Cassilis  Downans,  is  famed 
in  countrj'  story  for  being  a  favourite  haunt  of  fairies. 

4  Thtj  famous  family  of  that  name,  the  ancestors  of 
Robert,  the  great  deliverer  of  his  country,  were  Earls 
of  Carrick. 

5  The  first  ceremony  of  Halloween  is,  pulling  each  a 
stock,  or  plant  of  kail.  They  must  go  out,  hand-in-hand, 
with  eyes  shut,  and  pull  tlie  first  they  meet  with:  its 
being  big  or  little,  straight  or  crooked,  is  prophetic  of 
ihe  size  and  shape  of  the  grand  object  of  all  their  spells— 
the  husband  or  wife.    If  any  yird,  or  earth,  stick  to  the 


The  lasses  feat,  an'  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  when  they're  fine ; 
Their  faces  blythe,  fu'  sweetly  kythe, 

Hearts  leal,  an'  warm,  an'  kin' ; 
The  lads  sae  trig,  wi'  wooer  babs, 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garten. 
Some  unco  blate,  an'  some  wi'  gabs, 

Gar  lasses'  hearts  gang  startin' 

Whiles  fast  at  night. 

Then,  first  and  foremost,  thro'  the  kail. 

Their  stocks^  maun  a'  be  sought  ance ; 
They  steek  their  een,  an'  graip  an'  wale. 

For  muckle  anes  an'  straught  anes. 
Poor  hav'rel  Will  fell  aff  the  drift, 

An'  wander'd  through  the  bow-kail. 
An'  pou't,  for  want  o'  better  shift, 

A  runt  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow't  that  night. 

Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane. 

They  roar  an'  cry  a'  throu'ther ; 
The  vera  wee-things,  todlin',  rin 

Wi'  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther ; 
An'  gif  the  custoc's  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi'  joctelegs  they  taste  them; 
Syne  coziely,  aboon  the  door, 

Wi'  cannie  care,  they've  placed  them 
To  lie  that  night. 

The  lasses  staw  frae  mang  them  a' 

To  pou  their  stalks  o'  corn  ;^ 
But  Rab  slips  out,  an'  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn : 
He  grippet  Nelly  hard  an'  fast ; 

Loud  skirl'd  a'  the  lasses ; 
But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost. 

When  kiuttlin'  in  the  fause-house'^ 

Wi'  him  that  night. 

root,  that  is  tocher,  or  fortune;  and  the  taste  of  the  custoc, 
that  is,  the  heart  of  the  stem,  is  indicative  of  the  natural 
temper  and  disposition.  Lastly,  the  stems,  or,  to  giva 
them  their  ordinary  appellation,  the  runts,  are  placed 
somewhere  above  the  head  of  the  door ;  and  the  Christian 
names  of  the  people  whom  chance  brings  into  the  house 
are,  according  to  the  priority  of  placing  the  runts,  the 
names  in  question. 

6  They  go  to  the  barn-yard,  and  pull  each  at  three 
several  times,  a  stalk  of  oats.  If  the  third  stalk  Avants 
the  top-pickle,  that  is,  the  grain  at  tlie  top  of  the  stalk, 
the  party  in  question  will  come  to  the  marriage-bed  any^ 
thing  but  a  maid. 

7  When  the  corn  is  in  a  doubtful  state,  by  being  toe 
green  or  wet,  the  stack-builder,  by  means  of  old  timber, 
&c.,  makes  a  large  apartment  in  his  stack,  with  an  open- 
ing in  the  side  which  is  fairest  exposed  to  the  wind  :  thw 
he  calls  afause-house. 


OF   ROBERT  BURNS.                                         93 

The  auld  guidwife's  weel  hoordet  nits' 

An'  darklina  graipit  for  the  bauks. 

Are  round  an'  round  divided, 

And  in  the  blue-clue^  throws  then, 

An'  monie  lads'  an'  lasses'  fates 

Right  fear't  that  night 

Are  there  that  night  decided : 

Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side, 

An'  ay  she  win't,  an'  ay  she  swat. 

An'  burn  thegither  trimly  ; 

I  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin' ; 

Some  start  awa'  wi'  saucy  pride, 

'Till  something  held  within  the  pat. 

And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 

Guid  L — d !  but  she  was  quaukin' ! 

Fu'  high  that  night. 

But  whether  'twas  the  Deil  himsel', 

Or  whether  'twas  a  bauk-en', 

Jean  slips  in  twa  wi'  tentie  e'e ; 

Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

Wha  'twas,  she  wadna  tell ; 

She  did  na  wait  on  talkin' 

But  this  is  Jock,  an'  this  is  me, 

To  spier  that  night. 

She  says  in  to  hersel' : 

He  bleez'd  ow're  her,  an'  she  owre  him, 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  grannie  says, 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part ; 

"Will  ye  go  wi'  me,  grannie! 

'Till,  fuflF!  he  started  up  the  lum, 

I'll  eat  the  apple3  at  the  glass, 

An'  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart 

I  gat  frae  uncle  Johnnie :" 

To  see't  that  night. 

She  fuff 't  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  lunt, 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'rin', 

Poor  Willie,  wi'  his  bow-kail  runt, 

She  notic't  na,  an  aizle  brunt 

Was  brunt  wi'  primsie  Mallie ; 

Her  braw  new  worset  apron 

An'  Mallie,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt, 

Out  thro'  that  nighi 

To  be  compar'd  to  Willie ; 

Mall's  nit  lap  out  wi'  pridefu'  fling, 

"Ye  little  skelpie-limmer's  face! 

An'  her  ain  fit  it  brunt  it ; 

I  daur  you  try  sic  sportin', 

While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor,  by  jing, 

As  seek  the  foul  Thief  onie  place. 

'Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  : 

To  be  that  night. 

Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a  sight ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear  it ; 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min', 

For  monie  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fright. 

She  pits  hersel  an'  Rob  in ; 

An'  liv'd  an'  died  deleeret 

In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join. 

On  sic  a  night 

'Till  white  in  ase  they're  sobbin' ; 

Nell's  heart  was  dancin'  at  the  view, 

"  Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-moor, 

She  whisper'd  Rob  to  leuk  for't : 

I  mind't  as  weel's  yestreen. 

Rob,  stowlins,  prie'd  her  bonie  mou'. 

I  was  a  gilpey  then,  I'm  sure 

Fu'  cozie  in  the  neuk  for't, 

I  was  na  past  fifteen : 

Unseen  that  night. 

The  simmer  had  been  cauld  an'  wat. 

An'  stuff  was  unco  green ; 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs, 

An'  ay  a  rantin'  kirn  we  gat, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 

An'  just  on  Halloween 

She  lea'es  them  gashin'  at  their  cracks, 

It  fell  that  night. 

And  slips  out  by  hersel' : 

She  through  the  yard  the  nearest  take. 

"  Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M'Graea, 

An'  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then, 

A  clever,  sturdy  fellow : 

1  Burning  the  nuts  is  a  famous  charm.    They  name  the 

latter  end,  something  will  hold  the  th-«*i .  ^emand  "  wh« 

lad  and  Inss  to  each  particuliir  nut,  as  they  lay  them  iu 

bauds?"  i.e.  who  holds?  ananswei  •i'-.i  ^«  returned  from 

the  fire,  and  according  as  they  burn  quietly  together,  or 

the  kiln-pot,  naming  the  Christian  and  surnam*  of  your 

start  from  beside  one  another,  the  coarse  and  issue  of  the 

future  spouse. 

courtship  will  be. 

3  Take  a  candle,  and  go  alone  to  a  looking-glass ;  eat 

8  Whoever  would,  with  success,  try  this  spell,  must 

an  apple  before  it,  and  some  traditions  say,  you  should 

strictly  observe  these  directions:  Steal  out,  all  alone,  to 

comb  your  hair  all  the  time  ;  the  face  of  your  conjugal 

the  kiln,  and,  darkling,  throw  into  the  pot  a  clue  of  blue 

companion,  to  be,  will  be  seen  in  the  glass,  as  if  peeping 

ram ;  wind  it  in  a  clue  off  the  old  one ;  and  towards  the 

over  your  shoulder. 

94 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


He's  sin  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean, 

That  liy'd  in  Achmacalla : 
He  gat  hemp-seed,'   I  mind  it  weel. 

And  he  made  unco  light  o't ; 
But  monie  a  day  was  by  himsel', 

He  was  sae  sairly  frighted 

That  vera  night." 

Then  up  gat  fechtin'  Jamie  Fleck, 
An*  he  swoor  by  his  conscience. 

That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck ; 

.    For  it  was  a'  but  nonsense ; 

The  auld  guidman  raught  down  the  pock, 
An'  out  a'  handfu'  gied  him  ; 

Syne  bad  him  slip  frae  'mang  the  folk, 
Sometime  when  nae  ane  see'd  him. 

An'  try't  that  night. 

He  marches  thro'  amang  the  stacks, 

Tho'  he  was  something  sturtin ; 
The  graip  he  for  a  harrow  taks. 

An'  haurls  at  his  curpin  ; 
An'  ev'ry  now  an'  then  he  says, 

"Hemp-seed,  1  saw  thee, 
An'  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass. 

Come  after  me,  an'  draw  thee 

As  fast  that  night." 

He  whistl'd  up  Lord  Lennox'  march, 

To  keep  his  courage  cheery ; 
Altho'  his  hair  began  to  arch. 

He  was  feae  fley'd  an'  eerie ; 
'Till  presently  he  hears  a  squeak, 

An'  then  a  grane  an'  gruntle ; 
He  by  his  shouther  gae  a  keek, 

An'  tumbl'd  wi'  a  wintle 

Out-owre  that  night. 

He  roar*d  a  horrid  murder-shout. 

In  dreadfu'  desperation ! 
An'  young  an'  auld  cam  rinnin'  out, 

An'  hear  the  sad  narration ; 


1  Steal  out  unperceived,  and  sow  a  handful  of  hemp- 
seed,  harrowing  it  with  anything  you  can  conveniently 
draw  after  you.  Repeat,  now  and  then,  "Hemp-seed,  I 
saw  thee ;  hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee ;  and  him  (or  her)  that 
is  to  be  my  true  love,  come  after  me  and  pou  thee." 
Look  over  your  left  shoulder,  and  you  will  see  the  appear- 
ance of  the  person  invoked,  in  the  attitude  of  pulling 
hemp.  Some  traditions  say,  "  Come  after  me,  ard  shaw 
thee,"  that  is,  show  thyself;  in  which  case  it  simply 
ippears.  Others  omit  the  harrowing,  and  say,  "  Come 
after  me,  and  harrow  thee." 

2  This  charm  must  likewise  be  performed,  unperceived, 
and  alone.  You  go  to  the  barn,  and  open  both  doors, 
takii;;  them  off  the  hinges,  if  possible  j  for  there  is  danger 


He  swoor  'twas  hilchin  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie, 
'Till,  stop !  she  trotted  thro'  them  a' ; 

An'  wha  was  it  but  Grumphie 

Asteer  that  night  I 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  hae  gaen. 

To  win  three  wechts  o'  naething  ;* 
But  for  to  meet  the  deil  her  lane. 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in : 
She  gies  the  herd  a  pickle  nits, 

An'  twa  red  cheekit  apples. 
To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tam  Kipples 

That  vefa  night. 

She  turns  the  key  wi'  cannie  thraw. 

An'  owre  the  threshold  ventures ; 
But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a  ca'. 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters : 
A  ratton  rattled  up  the  wa'. 

An'  she  cried,  L — d  preserve  her ! 
An'  ran  thro'  midden-hole  an'  a*. 

An'  pray'd  wi'  zeal  and  fervour, 

Fu'  fast  that  night. 

They  hoy't  out  Will,  wi  sair  advice , 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane , 
It  chanc'd  the  stack  he  faddom't  thrice,* 

Was  timmer-propt  for  thrawin' ; 
He  taks  a  swirlie  auld  moss-oak, 

For  some  black,  grousome  carlin; 
An'  loot  a  winze,  an'  drew  a  stroke, 

'Till  skin  in  blypes  cam  haurlin' 

Aff 's  nieves  that  night. 

A  wanton  widow  Leezie  was. 

As  canty  as  a  kittlin ; 
But,  och !  that  night,  amang  the  shaws. 

She  got  a  fearfu'  settlin' ! 
She  thro'  the  whins,  an'  by  the  cairn. 

An'  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin, 

that  the  being  about  to  appear  may  shut  the  doers  and 
do  you  some  mischief.  Then  take  that  instrument  used 
in  winnowing  the  corn,  which,  in  our  country  dialect,  wo 
call  a  wecht ;  and  go  through  all  the  attitudes  of  letting 
down  corn  against  the  wind.  Repeat  it  three  times  ;  and 
the  third  time,  an  apparition  will  pass  through  the 
barn,  in  at  the  windy  door,  and  out  at  the  other,  having 
both  the  figure  in  question,  and  the  appearance  or  retinal 
marking  the  employment  or  station  in  life. 

3  Take  an  opportunity'  of  going  unnoticed,  to  a  bean 
stack,  and  fathom  it  three  times  round.  The  last  fathon 
of  the  last  time,  j-ou  will  catch  in  your  arms  the  appear 
ance  of  your  future  conjugal  yoke-fellow. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


95 


Whare  three  lairds'  lands  met  at  a  burn,' 
To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in, 

Was  bent  that  night. 

Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays, 

As  through  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scaur  it  strays, 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't ; 
Whyles  glittered  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle ; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel. 

Unseen  that  night. 

Amang  the  brackens  on  the  brae, 

Between  her  an'  the  moon. 
The  deil,  or  else  an  outler  quey. 

Gat  up  an'  gae  a  croon : 
Poor  Leezie's  heart  maist  lap  the  hool ! 

Near  lav'rock-height  she  jumpit. 
But  mist  a  fit,  an'  in  the  pool 

Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi'  a  plunge  that  night. 

in  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 
.    The  luggies  three^  are  ranged. 
And  ev'ry  time  great  care  is  ta'en. 

To  see  them  duly  changed : 
Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock's  joys 

Sin  Mar's-year  did  desire, 
Because  he  gat  the  toom-dish  thrice. 

He  heav'd  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 

Wi'  merry  sangs,  and  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  did  na  weary ; 
An'  unco  tales,  an'  funnie  jokes. 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an'  cheery ; 
Till  butter'd  so'ns3  wi'  fragrant  lunt. 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin' ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt, 

They  parted  aff  careerin' 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 


1  You  go  out,  one  or  more,  for  this  is  a  social  spell,  to 
a  south  running  spring  or  rivulet,  where  '<  three  lairds' 
lands  meet,"  and  dip  your  left  shirt-sleeve.  Go  to  bed 
in  sight  of  a  fire,  and  hang  your  wet  sleeve  before  it  to 
dry.  Lie  awake :  and,  some  time  near  midnight,  an 
apparition  havmg  the  exact  figure  of  the  grand  object  in 
Ruestion,  will  come  and  turn  the  sleeve,  as  if  to  dry  the 

ther  side  of  it. 

2  Take  three  dishes :  put  clean  water  in  one,  foul  water 
n  another,  and  leave  the  third  empty ;  blindfold  a  person 


XXVI. 

MAN  WAS   MADE   TO   MOURN. 

A   DIRGIi. 

[The  origin  of  this  fine  poem  is  alludc-i  tc  Ic  Burns  in 
one  of  his  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  :  "  I  had  as.  oki  g-nri- 
uncle  with  whom  my  mother  lived  in  her  girlish  year*- 
the  good  old  man  was  long  blind  ere  he  died,  during  wliich 
time  his  highest  enjoyment  was  to  sit  and  cry,  wliile  my 
mother  would  sing  the  simple  old  song  of '  The  Life  and 
Ago  of  Man.'  "  From  that  truly  venerable  woman,  long 
after  the  death  of  her  distinguished  son,  Cromek,  in  col- 
lecting the  Reliques,  obtained  a  copy  by  recitation  of  the 
older  strain.  Though  the  tone  and  sentiment  coincide 
closely  with  "  M;m  was  made  to  Mourn,"  I  agree  with 
Lockhart,  that  Burns  wrote  it  in  obedience  to  his  own 
habitual  feelings.] 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 
One  ev'ning  as  I  wandered  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spy'd  a  man  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care ; 
His  face  was  furrow'd  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

"Young  stranger,  whither  wand'rest  thou?" 

Began  the  rev'rend  sage ; 
*'  Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ? 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man. 

"  The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride: 
I've  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 

Twice  forty  times  return. 
And  ev'ry  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

**  0  man !  while  in  thy  early  yearg, 
How  prodigal  of  time ! 

and  lead  him  to  the  hearth  where  the  dishes  are  ranged 
he  (or  she)  dips  the  left  hand  :  if  by  chance  in  the  clean 
water,  the  future  husband  or  wife  will  come  to  the  ba 
of  matrimony  a  maid  ;  if  in  the  foul,  a  widow;  if  in  tn* 
empt^'dish,  it  foretells,  with  equal  certainty,  no  marriaga 
at  all.  It  is  repeated  three  times,  and  ever)'  time  th« 
arrangement  of  the  dishes  is  altered. 

3  Sowens.  with  butter  insteid  of  milk  to  them,  is  always 
the  Halloween  suppei. 


9G 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  ; 

Licentious  pausions  burn ; 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  nature's  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

<-  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  in  his  right: 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn ; 
Then  age  and  want — oh !  ill-match'd  pair  !- 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

**  A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest : 
Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  oh  !  what  crowds  in  every  land, 

All  wretched  and  forlorn ! 
Thro'  weary  life  this  lesson  learn — 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  num'rous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn ! 

"See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabour'd  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

"  If  I'm  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave — 

By  Nature's  law  design'd — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn? 

•<  Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son. 
Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 


This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  best ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn  1 

"  0  Death !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend- 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour,  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  I 
But,  oh !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn." 


XXVII. 
TO  RUIN. 

["I  have  been,"  says  Burns,  in  his  common-plap« 
book,  "  taking  a  peep  through,  as  Young  finely  says, 
'  The  dark  postern  of  time  long  elapsed.'  'Tvi^as  a 
rueful  prospect  !  What  a  tissue  of  thoughtlessness, 
weakness,  and  folly  !  my  life  reminded  me  of  a  ruined 
temple.  What  strength,  what  proportion  in  some  parts  . 
what  unsightly  gaps,  what  prostrate  ruins  in  others  I" 
The  fragment,  To  Ruin,  seems  to  have  had  its  origin  in 
moments  such  as  these. J 

I. 

All  hail !  inexorable  lord ! 

At  whose  destruction-breathing  word. 

The  mightiest  empires  fall ! 
Thy  cruel,  woe-delighted  train, 
The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  welcome,  all ! 
With  stern-resolv'd,  despairing  eye, 

I  see  each  aimed  dart ; 
For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie. 
And  quivers  in  my  heart. 
Then  low'ring  and  pouring, 

The  storm  no  more  I  dread ; 
Though  thick'ning  and  black'ning, 
Round  my  devoted  head. 


And  thou  grim  pow'r,  by  life  abhorr'd. 
While  life  a  pleasure  can  afford. 

Oh!  hear  a  wretch's  prayer! 
No  more  I  shrink  appall'd,  afraid ; 
I  court,  I  beg  thy  friendly  aid. 

To  close  this  scene  of  care  I 


OF  ROBEET   BURNS. 


97 


When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace, 

Resign  life's  joyless  day ; 
My  weary  heart  its  throbbings  cease, 
Cold  mould'ring  in  the  clay  ? 
No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 
To  stain  my  lifeless  face  ; 
"Enclasped,  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace  1 


XXVIII. 


JOHNGOtJDIE   OF  KILMARNOCK. 

ON   THE    'PUBLICATION    OF   HIS   ESSAYS. 

[This  burnip /  commentary,  by  Burns,  on  the  Essays 
of  Goudieic  t'lri  Macgill  controversy,  was  first  published 
by  Stewart,  with  the  Jolly  Beggars,  in  1801 ;  it  is  akin  in 
life  and  spirit  to  Holy  Willie's  Prayer ;  and  may  be  cited 
»B  a  sap.ple  of  the  wit  and  the  force  which  the  poet 
'-»ought  to  the  great,  but  now  forgotten,  controversy  of 
-*  V/est.] 

O  GouDiE !  terror  of  the  Whigs, 
Dread  of  black  coats  and  rev'renc^  wigs. 
Sour  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Girnin',  looks  back, 
Wishin'  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 

Wad  seize  you  quick. 

Poor  gapin',  glowrin'  Superstition, 

Waes  me !  she's  in  a  sad  condition : 

Fie  !  bring  Black  Jock,  her  state  physician. 

To  see  her  water : 
Alas !  there's  ground  o'  great  suspicion 

She'll  ne'er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple. 
But  now  she's  got  an  unco  ripple ; 
Haste,  gie  her  name  up  i'  the  chapel, 

Nigh  unto  death ; 
See,  hoTr  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple. 

An'  gasps  for  breath. 

En'^.usiasm's  past  redemption, 

0aen  in  a  gallopin'  consumption. 

Not  a'  the  quacks,  wi'  a*  their  gumption, 

Will  ever  mend  her. 
Her  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption 

Death  soon  will  end  her. 

*Tis  you  and  Taylor'  are  the  chief, 
Wha  are  to  blame  for  this  mischief, 

1  Dr.  Taylor,  of  Norwich 


But  gin  the  Lord's  ain  focks  gat  leave, 
A  toom  tar-barrel. 

An'  twa  red  peats  wad  send  relief, 

An'  end  the  quarrel 


XXIX. 


J.  LAPRAIK. 

AN    OLD    SCOTTISH    BARD. 
April  1st,  1785. 

(first   epistle.) 

["  The  epistle  to  John  Lapraik,"  says  Gilbert  Burns, 
*'  was  produced  exactly  on  the  occasion  described  by  the 
author.  Rocking  is  a  term  derived  from  primitive  times, 
when  our  country-women  employed  their  spare  hoars  in 
spinning  on  the  roke  or  distaff.  This  simple  instrument 
is  a  very  portable  one;  and  well  fitted  to  the  social  incli 
nation  of  meeting  in  a  neighbour's  house ;  hence  the 
phrase  of  going  a  rocking,  or  with  tlie  roke.  As  the 
connexion  the  phrase  hud  with  the  implement  was  for- 
gotten when  the  roke  gave  place  to  the  spinning-wheel, 
the  phrase  came  to  be  used  by  both  sexes  on  social  occa 
sions,  and  men  talk  of  going  with  their  rokes  as  tvell  ai 
■women."] 

While  briers  an'  woodbines  budding  green, 
An'  paitricks  scraichin'  loud  at  e'en, 
An'  morning  poussie  whidden  seen. 

Inspire  my  muse, 
This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien' 

I  pray  excuse. 

On  Fasten-een  we  had  a  rockin*, 

To  ca'  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin' , 

And  there  was  muckle  fun  an'  jokin'. 

Ye  need  na  doubt ; 
At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin' 

At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleas'd  me  best. 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife ; 
It  thirl'd  the  heart-strings  thro'  the  breast, 

A'  to  the  life. 

I've  scarce  heard  aught  describ'd  sae  wee]« 
What  gen'rous  manly  bosoms  feel, 
Thought  I,  "  Can  this  be  Pope  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie's  wark  ?" 
They  told  me  'twas  an  odd  kind  chiel 

About  Muirkirk. 


98                                      THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear't. 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire  ! 

And  sae  about  him  there  I  spier't, 

That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 

Then  a'  that  ken't  him  round  declar'd 

Then  though  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  miro 

He  had  injine, 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 

That,  nane  excell'd  it,  few  cam  near't, 

My  muse,  though  hamely  in  attire. 

It  was  sae  fine. 

May  touch  the  heart. 

That,  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale, 

0  for  a  spunk  o'  Allan's  glee. 

An'  either  douce  or  merry  tale, 

Or  Fergusson's,  the  bauld  and  slee. 

Or  rhymes  an'  sangs  he'd  made  himsel', 

Or  bright  Lapraik's,  my  friend  to  be. 

Or  witty  catches, 

If  I  can  hit  it ! 

'Tween  Inverness  and  Tiviotdale, 

That  would  be  lear  eneugh  for  me. 

He  had  few  matches. 

If  I  could  get  it. 

Then  up  I  gat,  an'  swoor  an  aith, 

Now,  sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 

Tho'  I  should  pawn  my  pleugh  and  graith, 

Tho'  real  friends,  I  believe,  are  few, 

Or  die  a  cadger  pownie's  death 

Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fou. 

At  some  dyke-back, 

I'se  no  insist. 

A  pint  an'  gill  I'd  gie  them  baith 

But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that's  true-^ 

To  hear  your  crack. 
Eat,  first  an'  foremost,  I  should  tell, 

I'm  on  your  list. 

I  winna  blaw  about  mysel ; 

Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 

As  ill  I  like  my  fauts  to  tell ; 

I  to  the  crambo-jingle  fell, 

But  friends  an'  folk  that  wish  me  well, 

Tho'  rude  an'  rough, 

They  sometimes  roose  me ; 

Yet  crooning  to  a  body's  sel', 

Tho'  I  maun  own,  as  monie  still 

Does  weel  eneugh. 

As  far  abuse  me. 

I  am  nae  poet  in  a  sense, 

There's  ae  wee  faut  they  whiles  lay  to  me. 

But  just  a  rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 

I  like  the  lasses — Gude  forgie  me ! 

An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence, 

For  monie  a  plack  they  wheedle  frae  me, 

Yet  what  the  matter? 

At  dance  or  fair ; 

Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance. 

May  be  some  ither  thing  they  gie  me 

I  jingle  at  her. 

They  weel  can  spare. 

Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Manichline  fair ; 

And  say,  "  How  can  you  e'er  propose. 

I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there ! 

You,  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose,    . 

We'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  care. 

To  mak  a  sang?" 

If  we  forgather, 

But,  by  youi  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

An'  hae  a  swap  o'  rhymin'-ware 

Ye're  may-be  wrang. 

Wi'  ane  anither. 

What's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we'se  gar  him  clatter, 

Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools  ; 

An'  kirsen  him  wi'  reekin'  water ; 

If  honest  nature  made  you  fools. 

Syne  we'll  sit  down  an'  tak  our  whitter. 

What  sairs  your  grammars? 

To  cheer  our  heart ; 

Ye'd  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools, 

An'  faith,  we'se  be  acquainted  better. 

Or  knappin-hammers. 

Before  we  part. 

A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes, 

Awa,  ye  selfish,  warly  race. 

Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes ! 

Wha  think  that  havins,  sense,  an'  grace, 

They  gang  in  stirks  and  come  out  asses. 

Ev'n  love  an'  friendship,  should  give  place 

Plain  truth  to  speak ; 

To  catch-the-plack ! 

An'  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face, 

By  dint  o'  Greek  t 

Nor  hear  your  crack. 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                         9S 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 

Her  dowff  excuses  pat  me  mad : 

Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 

"Conscience,"  says  I,  "ye  thowless  jadi 

Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

I'll  write,  an'  that  a  hearty  blaud. 

"Each  aid  the  others," 

This  vera  night; 

Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms. 

So  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade. 

My  friends,  my  brothers  I 

But  rhyme  it  right. 

Bat,  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 

"  Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  o'  hearts, 

As  my  auld  pen's  worn  to  the  grissle ; 

Tho'  mankind  were  a  pack  o'  cartes. 

Twa  lines  frae  you  wad  gar  me  fissle. 

Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts, 

Who  am,  most  fervent, 

In  terms  sae  friendly, 

While  I  can  either  sing  or  whissle. 

Yet  ye'U  neglect  to  show  your  parts. 

Your  friend  and  servant. 

An'  thank  him  kindly  ?* 

Sae  I  gat  paper  in  a  blink 

An'  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink : 

Quoth  I,  "  Before  I  sleep  a  wink. 

I  vow  I'll  close  it ; 

XXX. 

An'  if  ye  winna  mak  it  clink. 

TO 

By  Jove  I'll  prose  it  r 

J.  LAPRAIK. 

Sae  I've  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 

(second  epistle.) 

In  rhyme  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither, 

[The  John  Lapraik  to  whom  these  epistles  are  addressed 

Or  some  hotch-potch  that's  rightly  neither. 

lived  at  Dalfram  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Muirkirk, 

Let  time  mak  proof; 

and  was  a  rustic  worsliipper  of  the  Muse  :  he  unluckily, 

But  I  shall  scribble  down  some  blether 

however,  involved  himself  in  that  Western  bubble,  the 

Just  clean  aff-loof. 

Ayr  Bank,  and  consoled  himself  by  composing  in  his 

distress  that  song  which  moved  the  heart  of  Burns, 

nAcrinniTKr 

My  worthy  friend,  ne'er  grudge  an'  carp 

DdglUIUIlg 

Tho'  fortune  use  you  hard  an'  sharp ; 

"  When  I  npon  thy  bosom  lean." 

Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland-harp 

Wi'  gleesome  touch ! 

He  afterwards  published  a  volume  of  verse,  of  a  quality 

which  proved  that  the  inspiration  in  his  song  of  domestic 

sorrow  was  no  settled  power  of  sou. .] 

Ne'er  mind  how  fortune  waft  an'  warp ; 

She's  but  a  b-tch. 

April  21st,  1785. 

While  new-ca'd  ky,  rowte  at  the  stake, 

She's  glen  me  monie  a  jirt  an'  fleg, 

An'  pownies  reek  in  pleugh  or  braik, 

Sin'  I  could  striddle  owre  a  rig*; 

This  hour  on  e'enin's  edge  I  take 

But,  by  the  L— d,  tho'  I  should  beg 

To  own  I'm  debtor. 

Wi'  lyart  pow. 

To  honest-hearted,  auld  Lapraik, 

I'll  laugh,  an'  sing,  an'  shake  my  leg, 

For  his  kind  letter. 

As  lang's  I  dow  ! 

Forjesket  sair,  wi'  weary  legs, 

Now  comes  the  sax  an'  twentieth  siiniiM»» 

Rattlin'  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs. 

I've  seen  the  bud  upo'  the  timmer, 

Or  dealing  thro'  amang  the  naigs 

Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer 

Their  ten  hours'  bite, 

Frae  year  to  year  j 

My  awkart  muse  sair  pleads  and  begs. 

But  yet  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 

I  would  na  write. 

I,  Rob,  am  here. 

The  tapetless  ramfeezl'd  hizzie. 

Do  ye  envy  the  city  gent. 

She's  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy, 

Behint  a  kist  to  lie  and  sklent. 

Quo'  she,  "Ye  ken,  we've  been  sae  busy, 

Or  purse-proud,  big  wi'  cent,  per  cent. 

This  month'  an'  mair. 

And  muckle  wame. 

That  trouth,  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie, 

In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 

An'  something  sair." 

A  bailie's  name  ? 

d  h/.  da^/....z 


100 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


Or  is't  the  paughty,  feudal  Thane, 
Wi'  ruffl'd  sark  an'  glancing  cane, 
Wha  thinks  himsel  nae  sheep-shank  bane, 

But  lordly  stalks. 
While  caps  and  bonnets  aff  are  taen, 

As  by  he  walks ! 

**  0  Thou  "wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift  I 

Gie  me  o'  wit  an'  sense  a  lift, 

Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift, 

Thro'  Scotland  wide ; 
Wi'  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift, 

In  a'  their  pride  I" 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 
"On  pain'  o'  hell  be  rich  an'  great," 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fat(», 

Beyond  remead ; 
But,  thanks  to  Heav'n,  that's  no  the  gate 

We  learn  our  cr^ed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran. 
When  first  the  human  race  began, 
"  The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 

Whate'er  he  be, 
'Tis  he  fulfils  great  Nature's  plan, 

An'  none  but  he !" 

0  mandate,  glorious  and  divine ! 
The  followers  o'  the  ragged  Nine, 
Poor  thoughtless  devils !  yet  may  shine 

In  glorious  light. 
While  sordid  sons  o'  Mammon's  line 

Are  dark  as  night. 

Tho'  here  they  scrape,  an'  squeeze,  an'  growl. 
Their  worthless  nievfu'  of  a  soul 
May  in  some  future  carcase  howl 

The  forest's  fright ; 
Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise. 
To  reach  their  native  kindred  skies. 
And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  an'  joys. 

In  some  mild  sphere, 
Still  closer  knit  in  friendship's  ties 

Each  passing  year  I 


XXXI. 

TO 

J.  LAPRAIK. 

(thied  epistlb.) 

[I  have  heard  one  of  our  most  distinguished  EngliBh 
poets  recite  with  a  sort  of  ecstasy  some  of  the  verses  of 
these  epistles,  and  praise  the  ease  of  the  language  and 
the  happiness  of  the  thoughts.  He  averred,  however, 
that  the  poet,  when  pinched  for  a  word,  hesitated  not  to 
coin  one,  and  instanced,  "  tapetless,"  "  ramfeezled,"  and 
"  forjeskei,"  as  intrusions  in  our  dialect.  These  word* 
seem  indeed,  to  some  Scotchmen,  strange  and  uncouth; 
but  they  are  true  words  of  the  west.] 

Sept.  ISth,  1785. 
Guid  speed  an'  furder  to  you,  Johnny, 
Guid  health,  hale  ban's,  an'  weather  bonny ; 
Now  when  ye're  nickan  down  fu'  canny 

The  staff  o'  bread, 
May  ye  ne'er  want  a  stoup  o'  bran'y 

To  clear  your  head. 

May  Boreas  never  thresh  your  rigs. 
Nor  kick  your  rickles  aff  their  legs, 
Sendin'  the  stuff  o'er  muirs  an'  haggs 

Like  drivin'  wrack ; 
But  may  the  tapmast  grain  that  wags 

Come  to  the  sack. 

I'm  bizzie  too,  an'  skelpin'  at  it, 

But  bitter,  daudin'  showers  hae  wat  it, 

Sae  my  auld  stumpie  pen  I  gat  it 

Wi'  muckle  wark, 
An' took  my  jocteleg  an' whatt  it. 

Like  ony  dark. 

It's  now  twa  month  that  I'm  your  debtor 
For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter, 
Abusin'  me  for  harsh  ill  nature 

On  holy  men. 
While  deil  a  hair  yoursel'  ye're  better, 

But  mair  profane. 

But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  bells, 
Let's  sing  about  our  noble  sel's ; 
We'll  cry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills 

To  help,  or  roose  us, 
But  browster  wives  an'  whiskey  stills. 

They  are  the  muses. 

Your  friendship,  Sir,  I  winna  quat  it. 

An'  if  ye  mak'  objections  at  it, 

Then  han'  in  nieve  some  day  we'll  knot  it, 

An'  witness  take, 
An'  when  wi'  Usquabae  we've  wat  it 

It  winna  break. 


OF  ROBEKT  BURNS.                 '                 "    W 

But  if  the  beast  and  branks  be  spar'd 

Wi'  Allan,  or  wi'  Gilbertfield, 

Till  kye  be  gaun  without  the  herd, 

The  braes  o'  fame ; 

An'  a'  the  vittel  in  the  yard, 

Or  Fergusson,  the  writer  chiel, 

An'  theekit  right, 

A  deathless  name. 

I  mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 

Ae  winter  night 

(0  Fergusson !  thy  glorious  parts 

111  suited  law's  dry,  musty  arts ! 

Then  muse-inspirin'  aqua-vitae 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts. 

Shall  make  us  baith  sae  blythe  an'  witty, 

Ye  Enbrugh  gentry  1 

Till  ye  forget  ye're  auld  an'  gatty, 

The  tythe  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes 

An'  be  as  canty, 

Wad  stow'd  his  pantry  I 

As  ye  were  nine  year  less  than  thretty, 

Sweet  ane  an'  twenty! 

Yet  when  a  tale  comes  i'  my  head. 

But  stocks  are  cowpet  wi'  the  blast, 

Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a  screed. 

An'  now  the  sin  keeks  in  the  west, 

As  whiles  they're  like  to  be  my  dead 

Then  I  maun  rin  amang  the  rest 

(0  sad  disease !) 

An'  quat  my  chanter; 

I  kittle  up  my  rustic  reed, 

"ae  I  subscribe  myself  in  haste, 

It  gies  me  ease. 

Yours,  Rab  the  Ranter. 

Auld  Coila,  now,  may  fidge  fu'  fain. 

She's  gotten  poets  o'  her  ain, 

Chiels  wha  their  chanters  winna  hain, 

But  tune  their  lays, 

XXXII. 

Till  echoes  a'  resound  again 

TO 

Her  weel-sung  praise, 

WILLIAM  SIMPSON, 

Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while, 

OCHILTREE. 

To  set  her  name  in  measur'd  stile  ; 

She  lay  like  some  unkenn'd-of  isle 

[The  person  to  whom  this  epistle  is  addressed,  was 

Beside  New-Holland, 

schoolmaster  of  Ochiltree,  and  afterwards  of  New  La- 
nark :  he  was  a  writer  of  verses  too,  like  many  more  of 

Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 

the  poet's  comrades ;— of  verses  which  rose  not  above 

Besouth  Magellan. 

the  barren  level  of  mediocrity :  "one  of  his  poems,"  says 

Chambers,  "  was  a  laughable  elegy  on  the  death  of  the 
Emperor  Paul."    In  his  verses  to  Burns,  under  the  name 

Ramsay  an'  famous  Fergusson 

of  a  Tailor,  there  is  notliing  to  laugh  at,  though  they  are 

Gied  Forth  and  Tay  a  lift  aboon ; 

mtended  to  be  laughable  as  well  as  monitory.] 

Yarrow  an'  Tweed,  to  monie  a  tune, 

May,  1785. 

Owre  Scotland  rings, 

While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  an'  Boon, 

I  GAT  your  letter,  winsome  Willie ; 

Wi'  gratefu'  heart  I  thank  you  brawlie ; 

Nae  body  sings. 

The'  I  maun  say't,  I  wad  be  silly, 

Th'  Ilissus,  Tiber,  Thames,  an'  Seine, 

An'  unco  vain. 
Should  I  believe,  my  coaxin'  billie. 

Glide  sweet  in  monie  a  tunefu'  line  1 

Your  flatterin'  strain. 

But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine. 

An'  cock  your  crest, 

But  I'se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it. 

We'll  gar  our  streams  an'  burnies  shine 

I  sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 

Up  wi'  the  best 

Ironic  satire,  sidelins  sklented 

On  my  poor  Mu.sie ; 

We'll  sing  auld  Coila's  plains  an*  fells. 

Tho'  in  sic  phraisin'  terms  ye've  penn'd  it, 

Her  moor's  red-brown  wi'  heather  bells, 

I  scarce  excuse  ye. 

Her  banks  an'  braes,  her  dons  an'  dells. 

Where  glorious  Wallac« 

My  senses  wad  be  in  a  creel, 

Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Should  I  but  dare  a  hope  to  speel. 

Frae  southron  billies. 

■  *.*1I    ■r.J^,*if      *Tt   *    ,    I  I     iLtf   I    T  *        * 


102 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


At  Wallace*  name,  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood! 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

By  Wallace'  side, 
sun  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod, 

Or  glorious  dy'd. 

0  sweet  are  Coila's  haughs  an'  woods, 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buds. 
And  jinkin'  hares,  in  amorous  whids 

Their  loves  enjoy, 
While  thro'  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

With  wailfu'  cry ! 

Ev'n  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me 
When  winds  rave  thro'  the  naked  tree ; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  gray : 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Dark'ning  the  day. 

0  Nature !  a'  thy  shews  an'  forms 

To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms ! 

Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms, 

Wi'  life  an'  light. 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms. 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 

The  muse,  nae  Poet  ever  fand  her, 
'Till  by  himsel'  he  learn'd  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander, 

An'  no  think  lang ; 
0  sweet,  to  stray  an'  pensive  ponder 

A  heart-felt  sang ! 

The  warly  race  may  drudge  an'  drive, 

Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch  an'  strive, 
Let  me  fair  Nature's  face  descrive. 

And  I,  wi'  pleasure. 
Shall  let  the  busy,  grumbling  hive 

Bum  owre  their  treasure. 

Fareweel,  my  **  rhyme-composing  brither !" 
We've  been  owre  lang  unkenn'd  to  ither : 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither, 

In  love  fraternal ; 
May  envy  wallop  in  a  tether, 

Black  fiend,  infernal  i 

While  Highlandmen  hate  tolls  an'  taxes ; 
While  moorlan'  herds  like  guid  fat  braxies ; 
VVhile  f  erra  firma,  on  her  axes 

Diurnal  turns, 
Count  on  a  friend,  in  faith  an'  practice, 

Tn  Robert  Burns. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

My  memory's  no  worth  a  preen : 

I  had  amaist  forgotten  clean. 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean, 

By  this  New  Light, 
'Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been, 

Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans, 

At  grammar,  logic,  an'  sic  talents. 

They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance, 

Or  rules  to  gie. 
But  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain,  braid  Lallan^ 

Like  you  or  me. 

In  thae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon, 
Just  like  a  sark,  or  pair  o'  shoon. 
Wore  by  degrees,  'till  her  last  roon, 

Gaed  past  their  viewing. 
An*  shortly  after  she  was  done. 

They  gat  a  new  one. 

This  past  for  certain — undisputed ; 
It  ne'er  cam  i'  their  heads  to  doubt  it, 
'Till  chiels  gat  up  an'  wad  confute  it. 

An'  ca'd  it  wrang  ; 
An'  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  an'  lang. 

Some  herds,  weel  learn'd  upo'  the  beuk. 
Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk ; 
For  'twas  the  auld  moon  turned  a  neuk. 

An'  out  o'  sight. 
An'  backlins-comin',  to  the  leuk, 

She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  deny'd,  it  was  aflSrm'd ; 

The  herds  an'  hissels  were  alarm'd : 

The  rev'rend  gray-beards  rav'd  and  storm'd 

That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform'd 

Than  their  auld  daddiei 

Frae  less  to  mair  it  gaed  to  sticks ; 
Frae  words  an'  aiths  to  clours  an'  nicks. 
An'  monie  a  fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi'  hearty  crunt ; 
An'  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks, 

Were  hang'd  an'  brunt 

This  game  was  play'd  in  monie  lands. 
An'  Auld  Light  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 
That,  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 

Wi'  nimble  shanks, 
'Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands, 

Sic  bluidy  pranks. 


OF   ROBEllT    BURNS. 


105 


But  New  Light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowe, 
Polk  thought  them  ruin'd  stick-an'-stowe, 
Till  now  amaist  on  every  knowe, 

Ye'U  find  ane  plac'd ; 
An'  some  their  New  Light  fair  avow, 

Just  quite  barefac'd. 

Nae  doubt  the  Auld  Light  flocks  are  bleatin' ; 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex'd  an'  sweatin' : 
Mysel',  I've  even  seen  them  greetin' 

Wi'  girnin'  spite, 
To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lie'd  on 

By  word  an'  write. 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  loons ; 
Some  Auld  Light  herds  in  neibor  towns 
Are  mind't  in  things  they  ca'  balloons, 

To  tak  a  flight, 
An'  stay  ae  month  amang  the  moons 

And  see  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them  : 

An'  when  the  auld  moon's  gaun  to  lea'e  them, 

The  hindmost  shaird,  they'll  fetch  it  wi'  them, 

Just  i'  their  pouch, 
An'  when  the  New  Light  billies  see  them, 

I  think  they'll  crouch ! 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a'  this  clatter 

Is  naething  but  a  "  moonshine  matter ;" 

But  tho'  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 

In  logic  tulzie, 
[  hope  we  bardies  ken  some  better 

Than  mind  sic  brulzie. 


xxxni. 

ADDRESS 

TO  AN 

ILLEGITIMATE  CmLD. 

[This  hasty  and  not  very  decorous  eS'usion,  was  origi- 
nally entitled  "The  Poet's  Welcome;  or,  Rab  the 
Rhymer's  Address  to  his  Bastard  Child."  A  copy,  with 
the  more  softened,  but  less  expressive  title,  was 
published  by  Stewart,  in  1801,  and  is  alluded  to  by 
Burns  himself,  in  his  biographical  letter  to  Moore. 
"Bovxie  Betty,"  the  mother  of  the  "  sonsie-smirking, 
dear-bought  Bess,"  of  the  Inventory,  lived  in  Largie- 
■ide :  to  support  this  daughter  the  poet  made  over  the 
copyright  of  his  works  when  he  proposed  to  go  to  the 
West  Indies.  She  lived  to  be  a  woman,  and  to  marry 
one  John  Bishop,  overseer  at  Polkemmet,  wliere  she  died 
ji  1817.  It  is  said  she  resembled  Burns  quite  us  much  as 
my  of  the  rest  of  his  children.] 
Tuou's  welcome,  wean,  mischanter  fa'  me, 
If  ought  of  thee,  or  of  thy  mammy, 


Shall  ever  daunton  me,  or  awe  me. 

My  sweet  wee  lady, 

Or  if  I  blush  when  thou  shalt  ca'  me 
Tit-ta  or  dadiy. 

Wee  image  of  my  bonny  Betty, 

I,  fatherly,  will  kiss  and  daut  thee, 

As  dear  and  near  my  heart  I  set  thee 

Wi'  as  gude  will 
As  a'  the  priests  had  seen  me  get  thee 

That's  out  o'  hell. 

What  tho'  they  ca'  me  fornicator, 
An'  tease  my  name  in  kintry  clatter : 
The  mair  they  talk  I'm  kent  the  better, 

E'en  let  them  clash  ; 
An  auld  wife's  tongue's  a  feckless  matter 

To  gie  ane  fash. 

Sweet  fruit  o'  mony  a  merry  dint, 

My  funny  toil  is  now  a'  tint. 

Sin'  thou  came  to  the  warl  asklent. 

Which  fools  may  scoff"  at, 
In  my  last  plack  thy  part's  be  in't 

The  better  ha'f  o't. 

An'  if  thou  be  what  I  wad  hae  thee. 
An'  tak  the  counsel  I  sail  gie  thee, 
A  lovin'  father  I'll  be  to  thee. 

If  thou  be  spar'd ; 
Thro'  a'  thy  childish  years  I'll  e'e  thee. 

An'  think't  weel  war'd. 

Gude  grant  that  thou  may  ay  inherit 
Thy  mither's  person,  grace,  an'  merit. 
An'  thy  poor  worthless  daddy's  spirit. 

Without  his  failins ; 
'Twill  please  me  mair  to  hear  an'  see  it 

Than  stocket  mailene 


•  XXXIV. 

NATURE'S   LAW. 

▲  POKM  HITMBLY   INSCRIBED  TO  G.  H.  XSQ. 

"Great  nature  spoke,  observant  manobey'd." 

Pop« 

[This  Poem  was  written  by  Bums  at  Mossgiei,  and 
"humbly  inscribed  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq."  It  ;s  sup- 
posed to  allude  to  his  intercourse  with  Jean  Armour, 
with  the  circumstances  of  wh'ch  he  seems  to  have  made 
many  of  his  comrades  acquainted.  These  verses  were 
well  known  to  many  of  the  adm  rers  of  the  poet,  but  the> 
remained  in  manuscript  till  given  to  the  worjd  by  Si- 
Harris  Nicolas,  in  Pickering's  Aldine  Edition  of  tht 
British  Poets.] 

Let  other  heroes  boast  their  scars. 
The  marks  of  sturt  and  strife ; 


104 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


And  other  poets  sing  of  wars, 

The  plagues  of  human  life ; 
Shame  fa'  the  fun ;  wi'  sword  and  gun 

To  slap  mankind  like  lumber! 
I  sing  his  name,  and  nobler  fame, 

Wha  multiplies  our  number. 

Great  Nature  spoke  with  air  benign, 

"  Go  on,  ye  human  race  ! 
This  lower  world  I  you  resign ; 

Be  fruitful  and  increase. 
The  liquid  fire  of  strong  desire 

I've  pour'd  it  in  each  bosom ; 
Here,  in  this  hand,  does  mankind  stand, 

And  there,  is  beauty's  blossom." 

The  hero  of  these  artless  strains, 

A  lowly  bard  was  he, 
Who  sung  his  rhymes  in  Coila's  plains 

With  meikle  mirth  an'  glee ; 
Kind  Nature's  care  had  given  his  share, 

Large,  of  the  flaming  current ; 
And  all  devout,  he  never  sought 

To  stem  the  sacred  torrent. 

He  .felt  the  powerful,  high  behest. 

Thrill  vital  through  and  through ; 
And  sought  a  correspondent  breast, 

To  give  obedience  due  : 
Propitious  Powers  screen'd  the  young  flowers^ 

From  mildews  of  abortion ; 
And  lo  !  the  bard,  a  great  reward. 

Has  got  a  double  portion ! 

Auld  cantie  Coil  may  count  the  day, 

As  annual  it  returns, 
The  third  of  Libra's  equal  sway. 

That  gave  another  B[urns], 
With  future  rhymes,  an'  other  times. 

To  emulate  his  sire ; 
To  sing  auld  Coil  in  nobler  style, 

With  more  poetic  fire. 

Ye  Powers  of  peace,  and  peaceful  song. 

Look  down  with  gracious  eyes ; 
And  bless  auld  Coil  a,  large  and  long. 

With  multiplying  joys : 
Lang  may  she  stand  to  prop  the  land. 

The  flow'r  of  ancient  nations  ; 
And  B[urns's]  spring,  her  fame  to  sing 

Thro'  endless  generations ! 


XXXV. 

TO   THE   REV.  JOHN   M'MATH. 

[Poor  M'Math  was  at  the  period  of  this  epistle  assist 
ant  to  Wodrow,  minister  of  Tarbolton :  he  was  a  good 
preacher,  a  moderate  man  in  matters  of  discipline,  and 
an  intimate  of  tlie  Coilsfield  Montgomerys.  His  depen- 
dent condition  depressed  his  spirits:  he  grew  dissipated  j 
and  finally,  it  is  said,  enlisted  as  a  common  soldier,  tau 
died  in  a  foreign  land.] 

Sept.  mk,  1785. 

While  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cow'r 
To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin'  show'r. 
Or  in  gulravage  rinnin'  scow'r 

To  pass  the  time, 
To  you  I  dedicate  the  hour 

In  idle  rhyme. 

My  musie,  tir'd  wi'  mony  a  sonnet 

On  gown,  an'  ban',  and  douse  black  bonnet, 

Is  grown  right  eerie  now  she's  done  it. 

Lest  they  should  blame  her^ 
An'  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it 

And  anathem  her. 

I  own  'twas  rash,  an'  rather  hardy, 
That  I,  a  simple  countra  bardie, 
Shou'd  meddle  wi'  a  pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me. 
Can  easy,  wi'  a  single  wordie, 

Lowse  hell  upon  me. 

But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces, 

Their  sighin'  cantin'  grace-proud  faces. 

Their  three-mile  prayers,  and  hauf-mile  graces^ 

Their  raxin'  conscience, 
Whase  greed,  revenge,  an'  pride  disgraces, 

Waur  nor  their  nonsenae. 

There's  Gaun,'  miska't  waur  than  a  beast, 
Wha  has  mair  honour  in  his  breast 
Than  mony  scores  as  guid's  the  priest 

Wha  sae  abus't  him. 
An'  may  a  bard  no  crack  his  jest 

What  way  they've  use't  him 

See  him,  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need. 
The  gentleman  in  word  an'  deed. 
An'  shall  his  fame  an'  honour  bleed 

By  worthless  skellums, 
An'  not  a  muse  erect  her  head 

To  cowe  the  blellums  ? 


1  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                         105 

0  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire's  darts 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  nam'd  ; 

To  gie  the  rascals  their  deserts, 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  fam'd  ; 

I'd  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts, 

An'  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine's  blam'd. 

An'  tell  aloud 

(Which  gies  you  honour,) 

Their  jugglin'  hocus-pocus  arts 

Even  Sir,  by  them  your  heart's  esteem'd. 

To  cheat  the  crowd. 

An'  winning  manner. 

God  knows,  I'm  no  the  thing  I  shou'd  be, 

Pardon  this  freedom  I  have  ta'cn, 

Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  cou'd  be, 

An'  if  impertinent  I've  been. 

But  twenty  times,  I  rather  wou'd  be 

Impute  it  not,  good  Sir,  in  ane 

An  atheist  clean, 

Whase  heart  ne'er  wrang'dye^ 

Than  under  gospel  colours  hid  be 

But  to  his  utmost  would  befriend 

Just  for  a  screen. 

Ought  that  belang'd  ye. 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  glass, 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  lass. 

But  mean  revenge,  an'  malice  fause 

He'll  still  disdain, 

*  Vl'  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws, 

XXXVI. 

Like  some  we  ken. 

TO  A  MOUSE, 

They  take  religion  in  their  mouth  ; 
They  talk  o'  mercy,  grace,  an'  truth. 

OI»  TURNING  HEK  UP  IN  HER   NEST  WITH   THE  PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,  1785. 

For  what? — to  gie  their  malice  skouth 

[This  beautiful  poera  was  imagined  while  the  poet  waa 

On  some  puir  wight. 
An'  hunt  him  down,  o'er  right,  an'  ruth, 

holding  the  plough,  on  the  farm  of  Mossgiel :  the  field  ia 

Btili  pointed  out :  and  a  man  called  Blane  is  still  living, 
who  says  he  was  gaudsman  to  the  bard  at  the  time,  an 

To  ruin  straight. 

chased  the  mouse  with  the  plough-pettle,  for  which  he 

was  rebuked  by  his  young  master,  who  inquired  what 

All  hail.  Religion !  maid  divine ! 

harm  the  poor  mouse  had  done  him.    In  the  night  that 

Pardon  a  muse  sae  mean  as  mine. 

followed,  Burns  awoke  his  gaudsman,  who  was  in  the 

Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line. 

same  bed  with  him,  recited  the  poem  as  it  now  stands, 
and  said,  "  What  think  you  of  our  mouse  now  ?"] 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee ; 

JPo  stigmatize  false  friends  of  thine 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 

Can  ne'er  defame  thee. 

0,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 

Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty. 

Tho'  blotch' d  an'  foul  wi'  mony  a  stain, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle ! 

An'  far  unworthy  of  thy  train. 

I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

With  trembling  voice  I  tune  my  strain 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle ! 

To  join  with  those, 

Who  boldly  daur  thy  cause  maintain 

Pm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 

In  spite  o'  foes : 

Has  broken  nature's  social  union. 

An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion. 

In  spite  o'  crowds,  in  spite  o'  mobs. 

Which  makes  thee  startle 

In  ppite  of  undermining  jobs. 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

Ii\  spite  o'  dark  banditti  stabs 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

At  worth  an'  merit, 

By  scoundrels,  even  wi'  holy  robes. 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 

But  hellish  spirit. 

What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  I 

A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

.0  Ayr!  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 

'S  a  sma'  request : 

Within  thy  presbyterial  bound 

I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave, 

A  candid  lib'ral  band  is  found 

And  never  miss'tl 

Of  public  teachers. 

As  men,  as  Christians  too,  renown'd, 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ; 

in*  manly  preachers. 

Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  I 
«»j 

106 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


An'  naetHng,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 
0'  foggage  green ! 

An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baitli  snell  and  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
'Till,  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble. 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  I 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men, 

Gang  aft  a-gley. 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain, 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But,  Och !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear  1 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear. 


XXXVII. 
SCOTCH  DRINK. 

«  Gie  him  strong  drink,  until  he  wink, 

That's  sinking  in  despair; 
An'  liquor  guui  to  fire  his  bluid, 

That's  prest  wi'  grief  an'  care; 
There  let  him  bouse,  an'  deep  carouse, 

Wi'  bumpers  flowing  o'er. 
Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  debts, 

An'  minds  his  griefs  no  more." 

Solomon's  Proverb,  xxxi.G,  7. 

(«« I  here  enclose  you,"  said  Burns,  20  March,  1786,  to 
ms  friend  Kennedy,  "my  Scotch  Drink;  I  hope  some 
time  before  we  hear  the  gowk,  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  at  Kilmarnock :  when  I  intend  we  shall  have 
a  gill  bet^veen  us,  in  a  mutchkin  stoup."] 

Let  other  poets  raise  a  fracas 

*Bout  vine",  an'  wines,  an'  dru'ken  Bacchus, 


An'  crabbit  names  and  stories  wrack  us. 
An'  grate  our  lug, 

I  sing  the  juice  Scotch  bear  can  mak  us. 
In  glass  or  jug. 

0,  thou,  my  Muse !  guid  auld  Scotch  drink ; 
Whether  thro*  wimplin'  worms  thou  jink. 
Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o'er  the  brink. 

In  glorious  faem, 
Inspire  me,  till  I  lisp  an'  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name  I 

Let  husky  wheat  the  haughs  adorn. 
An'  aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 
An'  pease  an'  beans,  at  e'en  or  morn, 

Perfume  the  plain, 
Leeze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o'  grain ! 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood. 
In  souple  scones,  the  wale  o'  food  I 
Or  tumblin'  in  the  boilin'  flood 

Wi'  kail  an'  beef; 
But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart's  blood, 

There  thou  shines  chief. 

Food  fills  the  wame  an'  keeps  us  livin' ; 
Tho'  life's  a  gift  no  worth  receivin' 
When  heavy  dragg'd  wi'  pine  an'  grievin' ; 

But,  oil'd  by  thee, 
The  wheels  o'  life  gae  down-hill,  scrievin,' 

Wi'  rattlin'  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o'  doited  Lear ; 
Thou  cheers  the  heart  o'  drooping  Care  ; 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  Labour  sair, 

At's  weary  toil ; 
Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 

Wi'  gloomy  smile. 

Aft,  clad  in  massy,  siller  weed, 
Wi'  gentles  thou  erects  thy  head ; 
Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o'  need, 

The  poor  man's  wine, 
His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread, 

Thou  kitchens  fine. 

Thou  art  the  life  o'  public  haunts ; 

But  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  an'  rants? 

Ev'n  godly  meetings  o'  the  saunts, 

By  thee  inspir'd, 
When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents, 

Are  doubly  fir'd. 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS.                                       107 

That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 

May  gravels  round  his  blather  wrench. 

0  sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn  in  I 

An'  gouts  torment  him  inch  by  inch. 

Or  reekin'  on  a  new-year  morning 

Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi'  a  glunch 

In  cog  or  dicker, 

0'  sour  disdain, 

An'  just  a  wee  drap  sp'ritual  burn  in, 

Out  owre  a  glass  o'  whiskey  punch 

An'  gusty  sucker ! 

Wi'  honest  men ; 

When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath. 

0  whiskey!  soul  o'  plays  an'  pranks! 

An'  ploughmen  gather  wi'  their  graith, 

Accept  a  Bardie's  gratefu'  thanks! 

0  rare !  to  see  thee  fizz  an'  freath 

When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 

r  th'  lugget  caup  1 

Are  my  poor  verses ! 

Then  Burnewin  comes  on  like  Death 

Thou  comes they  rattle  i'  their  ranks 

At  ev'ry  chap. 

At  ither's  a— s  ! 

Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  or  steel ; 

Thee,  Ferintosh!  0  sadly  lost! 

The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel. 

Scotland  lament  frae  coast  to  coast  1 

Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel. 

Now  colic  grips,  an'  barkin'  hoast, 

The  strong  forehammer. 

May  kill  us  a' ; 

Till  block  an'  studdie  ring  an'  reel 

For  loyal  Forbes'  charter'd  boast, 

Wi'  dinsome  clamour. 

Is  ta'en  awa 

When  skirlin'  weanies  see  the  light. 

Thae  curst  horse-leeches  o'  th'  Excise, 

Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright. 

Wha  mak  the  whiskey  stells  their  prize ! 

How  fumblin'  cuifs  their  dearies  slight ; 

Haud  up  thy  han',  Deil !  ance,  twice,  thrice ! 

Wae  worth  the  name  ! 

There,  seize  the  blinkers  I 

Nae  howdie  gets  a  social  night, 

An'  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 

Or  plack  frae  them. 

For  poor  d— n'd  drinkers 

When  neibors  anger  at  a  plea. 

Fortune !  if  thou'll  but  gie  me  still 

An'  just  as  wud  as  wud  can  be. 

Hale  breeks,  a  scone,  an'  whiskey  gill. 

How  easy  can  the  barley-bree 

An'  rowth  o'  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Cement  the  quarrel ! 

Tak'  a'  the  rest, 

It's  aye  the  cheapest  lawyer's  fee. 

An'  deal't  about  as  thy  blind  skill 

To  taste  the  barrel. 

Directs  thee  best. 

Alake !  that  e'er  my  muse  has  reason 
To  wyte  her  countrymen  wi'  treason  I 

But  monie  daily  weet  their  weason 

Wi'  liquors  nice, 

xxxvm. 

An'  hardly,  in  a  winter's  season. 

E'er  spier  her  price. 

THE  author's 

Wae  worth  that  brandy,  burning  trash ! 

EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER 

Fell  source  o'  monie  a  pain  an'  brash ! 

TO  THK 

Twins  monie  a  poor,  doylt,  druken  hash. 

SCOTCH  REPRESENTATIVES 

0'  half  his  days ; 

IN   THB 

An'  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland's  cash 

HOUSE   OP   COMMONS. 

To  her  warst  faes. 

'Dearest  of  distillation!  last  and  best! — 

Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well, 

How  art  thou  lost ! " 

Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I  tell. 

Parody  on  Miltos 

Poor  plackless  devils  like  mysel', 

["This  Poem  was  written,"  says  Burns,  "before  th« 

It  sets  you  ill, 

act  anent  the  Scottish  distilleries,  of  session  1786^  for 

which  Scotland  nnd  the  author  return  their  most  grate- 

Wi' bitter,  dearthfa'  wines  to  mell. 

ful  thanks."     Befoia  tlie  passing  of  this  loniont  act,  so 

Or  foreign  gill. 

sharp  was  the  law  in  the  North,  that  some  distillora 

108                                    THE    POETICAL   WORKS                                            1 

relinquished  their  trade ;  the  price  of  barley  waB  affected, 

Ne'er  claw  your  lug,  an'  fidge  your  back, 

and  Scotland,  already  exasperated  at  the  refusal  of  a 

An'  hum  an'  haw ; 

militia,  for  which  she  was  a  petitioner,  began  to  handle 
her  cli'yraore,  and  was  perhaps  only  hindered  from  draw- 

But raise  your  arm,  an'  tell  your  crack 

ing  ■;;  by  the  act  mentioned  by  the  poet.    In  an  early 

Before  them  a'. 

eO/y  of  the  poem,   he  thus  alludes  to  Colonel  Hugh 

Montgomery,  afterwards  Earl  of  Eglinton  : — 

Paint  Scotland  greetin'  owre  her  thrizzle, 

*'  Thee,  sodger  Hugh,  my  watchman  stented, 

Her  mutchkin  stoup  as  toom's  a  whissle : 

If  bardies  e'er  are  represented, 

An'  damn'd  excisemen  in  a  bussle. 

I  ken  if  that  yere  sword  were  wanted 

Seizin'  a  stell. 

Ye'd  lend  yere  hand; 
But  when  there's  aught  to  say  anent  it 

Triumphant  crushin't  like  a  mussel 

Yere  at  a  stand." 

Or  lampit  shell. 

The  poet  was  not  sure  that  Montgomery  would  think 

Then  on  the  tither  hand  present  her. 

the  compliment  to  his  ready  hand  an  excuse  in  full  for 
the  allusion  to  his  unready  tongue,  and  omitted  the 

A  blackguard  smuggler,  right  behint  her, 

stanza.] 

An'  cheek-for-chow,  a  chuffie  vintner. 

Ye  Irish  lords,  ye  knights  an'  squires, 

Colleaguing  join. 
Picking  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter 

Wlia  represent  our  brughs  an'  shires, 

Of  a'  kind  coin. 

An'  doucely  manage  our  affairs 

In  Parliament, 

Is  there,  that  bears  the  name  o'  Scot, 

To  you  a  simple  Bardie's  prayers 

But  feels  his  heart's  bluid  rising  hot, 

Are  humbly  sent. 

To  see  his  poor  auld  mither's  pot 

Thus  dung  in  staves. 

Alas !  my  roupet  Muse  is  hearse ! 

An'  plunder'd  o'  her  hindmost  groat 

Your  honours'  hearts  wi'  grief  'twad  pierce, 

By  gallows  knaves  ? 

To  see  her  sittin'  on  her  a — e 

Low  i'  the  dust, 

Alas  !  I'm  but  a  nameless  wight, 

An'  scriechin'  out  prosaic  verse, 

Trode  i'  the  mire  out  o'  sight ! 

An'  like  to  brust ! 

But  could  I  like  Montgomeries  fight, 

Or  gab  like  Boswell, 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 

There's  some  sark-necks  I  wad  draw  tight. 

Scotland  an'  me's  in  great  affliction. 

An'  tie  some  hose  welL 

E'er  sin'  they  laid  that  curst  restriction 

On  aquavitse ; 

God  bless  your  honours,  can  ye  see't, 

An'  rouse  them  up  to  strong  conviction. 

The  kind,  auld,  canty  carlin  greet. 

An'  move  their  pity. 

An'  no  get  warmly  on  your  feet, 

An'  gar  them  hear  it  1 

Stand  forth,  an'  tell  yon  Premier  youth, 

An'  tell  them  with  a  patriot  heat. 

The  honest,  open,  naked  truth  : 

Ye  winna  bear  it  ? 

Tell  him  o'  mine  an'  Scotland's  drouth. 

His  servants  humble : 

Some  o'  you  nicely  ken  the  laws. 

The  muckie  devil  blaw  ye  south, 

To  round  the  period  an'  pause, 

If  ye  dissemble ! 

An'  wi'  rhetoric  clause  on  clause 

To  mak  harangues : 

Does  ony  great  man  glunch  an'  gloom  ? 

Then  echo  thro'  Saint  Stephen's  wa's 

Speak  out,  an'  never  fash  your  thumb  ! 

Auld  Scotland's  wrangs. 

Let  posts  an'  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wi'  them  wha  grant  'em : 

Dempster,  a  true  blue  Scot  I'se  warran' ; 

If  honestly  they  canna  come, 

Thee,  aith-detesting,  chaste  Kilkerran;' 

Far  better  want  'em. 

An'  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  baron. 

The  Laird  o'  Graham  ;2 

In  gath'rin  votes  you  were  na  slack ; 

An'  ane,  a  chap  that's  damn'd  auldfarrren. 

Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack ; 

Dundas  his  name. 

1  Sir  Adam  Ferguson. 

2  The  Duke  of  Montrose. 

OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


109 


Erskine,  a  spunkie  Norland  bilHe ; 
True  Campbells,  Frederick  an'  Hay  ; 
An^  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie : 

An'  monie  ithers. 
Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 

Might  own  for  brithers. 

Arouse,  my  boys !  exert  your  mettle, 
To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle : 
Or  faith !  I'll  wad  my  new  pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll  see't  or  lang, 
She'll  teach  you,  wi'  a  reekin'  whittle, 

Anither  sang. 

This  while  she's  been  in  crankous  mood, 
Her  lost  militia  fir'd  her  bluid ; 
(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  guid, 

Play'd  her  that  pliskie !) 
An'  now  she's  like  to  rin  red-wud 

About  her  whiskey 

An'  L — d,  if  ance  they  pit  her  till't, 
Her  tartan  petticoat  she'll  kilt. 
An'  durk  an'  pistol  at  her  belt, 

She'll  tak  the  streets, 
An'  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt, 

r  th'  first  she  meets  I 

For  God  sake,  sirs,  then  speak  her  fair, 
An'  straik  her  cannie  wi'  the  hair. 
An'  to  the  muckle  house  repair, 

Wi'  instant  speed. 
An'  strive,  wi'  a'  your  wit  and  lear. 

To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tongu'd  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 
May  taunt  you  wi'  his  jeers  an'  mocks ; 
But  gie  him't  het,  my  hearty  cocks ! 

E'en  cowe  the  cadie  I 
An'  send  him  to  his  dicing  box, 

An'  sportin'  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o'  auld  Boconnock's 
I'll  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bonnocks, 
An'  drink  his  health  in  auld  Nanse  Tinnock's' 

Nine  times  a-week, 
If  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  an'  winnocks, 

Wad  kindly  seek. 

Could  he  some  commutation  broach, 
I'll  pledge  my  aith  in  guid  braid  Scotch, 


1 A  worthy  old  hostess  of  the  author's  in  Maachline, 
where  he  sometimes  studies  politics  over  a  glass  of  guid 
«u.d  Scotch  drink. 


Ha  need  na  fear  their  foul  reproach 
Nor  erudition. 

Yon  mixtie-maxtie  queer  hotch-potch. 
The  Coalition. 

Auld  Scotland  has  a  raucle  tongue  ; 
She's  just  a  devil  wi'  a  rung; 
An'  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  tak  their  part, 
Tho'  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 

She'll  no  desert. 

An'  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and-Forty, 
May  still  your  mither's  heart  support  ye , 
Then,  though  a  minister  grow  dorty. 

An'  kick  your  place, 
Ye'll  snap  your  fingers,  poor  an'  hearty. 

Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  honours  a'  your  days, 
Wi'  sowps  o'  kail  and  brats  o'  claise, 
In  spite  o'  a'  the  thievish  kaes. 

That  haunt  St.  Jamie  s  i 
Your  humble  Poet  signs  an'  prays 

While  Rab  his  name  is. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Let  half-starv'd  slaves  in  warmer  skies 
See  future  wines,  rich  clust'ring,  rise ; 
Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envies. 

But  blythe  and  frisky. 
She  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  boys, 

Tak  aff  their  whiskey. 

What  tho'  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms. 
While  fragrance  blooms  and  beauty  charms  ! 
When  wretches  range,  in  famish'd  swarms. 

The  scented  groves. 
Or  hounded  forth,  dishonour  arms 

In  hungry  droves. 

Their  gun's  a  burden  on  their  shouther ; 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o'  powther ; 
Their  bauldest  thought's  a'  hank'ring  swithei 

To  Stan'  or  rin. 
Till  skelp — a  shot — they're  aflF,  a'  thrcther 

To  save  their  skin. 

But  bring  a  Scotsman  frae  his  hill. 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill, 
Say,  such  is  royal  George's  will. 

An'  there's  the  foe, 
He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 

Twa  at  a  blow. 


110 


iHE   POETICAL   WORKS 


JTae  cauld  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  him ; 
Peath  comes,  wi'  fearless  eye  he  sees  him ; 
Wi'  bluidy  han'  a  welcome  gies  him  ; 

An'  when  he  fa's, 
His  latest  draught  o'  breathin'  lea'es  him 

In  faint  huzzas ! 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steek, 
An'  raise  a  philosophic  reek, 
An'  physically  causes  seek, 

In  clime  an'  season ; 
But  tell  me  whiskey's  name  in  Greek, 

I'll  tell  the  reason. 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  mither !     • 
Tho'  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 
Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o'  heather 

Ye  tine  your  dam ; 
Freedom  and  whiskey  gang  thegither! — 

Tak  aflf  your  dram  I 


XXXIX. 
ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID, 

OR   TUB 

RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

"  My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 

And  lump  them  ay  thegither; 

The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool, 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither : 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 

May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caff  in ; 
So  ne'er  a  fellow-creature  slight 
For  random  fits  o'  daffin." 

Solomon. — Eccles.  ch.  vii.  ver.  16. 

['^  Burns,"  says  Hogg,  in  a  note  on  this  Poem,  "  has 
written  more  from  his  own  heart  and  his  own  feelings 
than  any  other  poet.  External  nature  had  few  charms 
for  him  ;  the  sublime  shades  and  hues  of  heaven  and 
earth  never  excited  his  enthusiasm  :  but  with  the  secret 
fountains  of  passion  in  the  human  soul  he  was  well 
acquainted."  Burns,  indeed,  was  not  what  is  called  a 
descriptive  poet :  yet  with  what  exquisite  snatches  of 
description  are  some  of  his  poems  adorned,  and  in  what 
fragrant  and  romantic  scenes  he  enshrines  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  many  of  his  finest  songs !  Who  the  high, 
exalted,  virtuous  dames  were,  to  \vhom  the  Poem  refers, 
we  are  not  told.  How  much  men  stand  indebted  to  want 
of  opportunity  to  sin,  and  how  much  of  their  good  name 
they  owe  to  the  ignorance  of  the  w  irld,  were  inquiries 
in  which  the  poet  found  pleasure.] 


0  TE  wha  are  sae  guid  yourseV, 
Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 


Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  neibor's  fauts  and  folly ! 

Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 
Supply'd  wi'  store  o'  water, 

The  heaped  happer's  ebbing  still. 
And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 


Hear  me,  ye  venerable  cere, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals  ; 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

Would  here  propone  defences. 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 


Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compar'd, 

And  shudder  at  the  niflFer, 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  maks  the  mighty  diflFer  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in. 
And  (what's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hiding. 

IV. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop, 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 

That  still  eternal  gallop  : 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Eight  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way  ; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco  lee-way. 


See  social  life  and  glee  sit  down. 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
'Till,  quite  transmugrify'd,  they're  grows 

Debauchery  and  drinking ; 
0  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Th'  eternal  consequences ; 
Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state, 

D-mnation  of  expenses ! 


Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Ty'd  up  in  godly  laces, 
Before  ye  gie  poor  frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases  ; 
A  dear  lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination — 


OF  EGBERT  BURNS. 


Ill 


But,  let  me  whisper,  i'  your  lug, 
Ye're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

TII. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man. 

Still  gentler  sister  woman ; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human  : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

VIII. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring — its  various  bias: 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 


XL. 

TAM  SAMSON'S  ELEGY.^ 

'  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 

POPK. 

[Tarn  Samson  was  a  west  country  seedsman  and  sports- 
man, who  loved  a  good  song,  a  social  glass,  and  relished 
K  shot  so  well  that  he  expressed  a  wish  to  die  and  be 
Duried  in  the  moors.  On  this  hint  Burns  wrote  the  Elegy : 
when  Tarn  heard  o'  this  he  waited  on  the  poet,  caused 
him  to  recite  it,  and  expressed  displeasure  at  being 
numbered  with  the  dead  :  tlie  author,  whose  wit  was  as 
ready  as  his  rhymes,  added  the  Per  Contra  in  a  moment, 
much  to  the  delight  of  his  friend.  At  his  death  the  four 
lines  of  Epitaph  were  cut  on  his  gravestone.  "  This  poem 
has  alvays,"  says  Hogg,  "  been  a  great  country  favour- 
ite :  it  abounds  with  happy  expressions. 

'  In  vain  the  burns  cam'  down  like  waters, 
An  acre  braid.' 

\^  hat  a  p*  jtire  of  a  flooded  bum  !  any  other  poet  would 
have  given  ua  a  long  description  :  Burns  dashes  it  down 
at  once  m  a  style  so  graphic  no  one  can  mistake  it. 

'  Perhaps  upon  his  mouldering  breast 
Some  spitefu'  raoorfowl  bigs  her  nest.' 

Match  that  sentence  who  can."] 

iWhen  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went  out  last  mnir- 
Cuw.  season,  he  supposed  it  was  to  be,  in  Ossian's  phrase, 
••the  last  of  his  fields." 

2  A  preacher,  a  great  favourite  with  the  million.  Vide 
the  Ordination,  stanza  II 


Has  auld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  deil? 
Or  great  M'Kinlay''^  thrawn  his  heel  ' 
Or  Robinson^  again  grown  weel. 

To  preach  an'  read  ? 
"  Na,  waur  than  a' !"  cries  ilka  chiel, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

Kilmarnock  lang  may  grunt  an'  grane, 
An'  sigh,  an'  sob,  an'  greet  her  lane, 
An'  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  an  wean, 

In  mourning  weed ; 
To  death,  she's  dearly  paid  the  kane, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  I 

The  brethren  o'  the  mystic  level 
May  hing  their  head  in  woefu'  bevel, 
While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel. 

Like  ony  bead ; 
Death's  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  devel, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

When  Winter  muflles  up  his  cloak. 
And  binds  the  mire  like  a  rock  ; 
When  to  the  lochS  the  curlers  flock, 

Wi'  gleesome  speed, 
Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ? 

Tam  Samson's  dead  I 

He  was  the  king  o'  a'  the  core. 
To  guard  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore. 
Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar 

In  time  o'  need ; 
But  now  he  lags  on  death's  hog-score, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  I 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail, 
And  trouts  be-dropp'd  wi'  crimson  hail, 
And  eels  weel  ken'd  for  souple  tail, 

And  geds  for  greed. 
Since  dark  in  death's  fish-creel  we  wail 

Tam  Samson  dead. 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  patricks  a' ; 

Ye  cootie  moorcocks,  crousely  craw; 

Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu'  braw, 

Withouten  dread ; 
Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa' — 

Tam  Samson's  dead  t 

That  woefu*  morn  be  ever  moum'd. 
Saw  him  in  shootin'  graith  adorn'd. 


3  Another  preacher,  an  eqaal  favourite  with  the  few 
who  was  at  that  time  ailing.  For  him  see  also  the  Ord> 
nation,  stanza  IX. 


112 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


While  pointers  round  impatient  burn'd, 
Frae  couples  freed ; 

But,  Och !  lie  gaed  and  ne'er  return'd ! 
Tarn  Samson's  dead ! 

In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters  ; 
In  vair.  the  gout  his  ancles  fetters ; 
In  vain  the  burns  cam'  down  like  waters, 

An  acre  braid! 
Now  ev'ry  auld  wife,  greetin',  clatters, 

Tarn  Samson's  dead  I 

Owre  many  a  weary  hag  he  limpit, 
An'  ay  the  tither  shot  he  thumpit. 
Till  coward  death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi'  deadly  feide ; 
Now  he  proclaims,  wi'  tout  o'  trumpet, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 
He  reel'd  his  wonted  bottle  swagger, 
But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 

Wi'  weel-aim'd  heed ; 
"L — d,  five !"  he  cry'd,  an'  owre  did  stagger; 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

Hk  hoary  hunter  mourn'd  a  brither; 
Ilk  sportsman  youth  bemoan'd  a  father ; 
Yon  auld  grey  stane,  amang  the  heather, 

Marks  out  his  head, 
Whare  Burns  has  wrote  in  rhyming  blether 

Tam  Samson's  dead! 

There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest ; 
Perhaps  upon  his  mould'ring  breast 
Some  spitefu'  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest. 

To  hatch  an'  breed ; 
Alas !  nae  mair  he'll  them  molest ! 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

When  August  winds  the  heather  wave, 
And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave, 
Three  volleys  let  his  mem'ry  crave 

0'  pouther  an'  lead, 
'Till  echo  answer  frae  her  cave 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

Heav'n  rest  his  soul,  whare' er  he  be ! 
Is  th'  wish  o'  mony  mae  than  me ; 
He  had  twa  fauts,  or  may  be  three, 

Yet  what  remead  ? 
Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we : 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 


EPITAPH. 

Tam  Samson's  weel-worn  clay  here  lies, 
Ye  canting  zealots  spare  him ! 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 
Ye'll  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 


PER  CONTRA. 

Go,  Fame,  an'  canter  like  a  filly 
Thro'  a'  the  streets  an'  neuks  o'  Killie, 
Tell  ev'ry  social  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin', 
For  yet,  unskaith'd  by  death's  gleg  gullie, 

Tam  Samson's  livin'. 


XLI. 
LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED   BY   THE    UNFORTUNATE   ISSUB 
OF  A 

FRIEND'S   AMOUR. 

"  Alas !  how  oft  does  goodness  wound  itself! 
And  sweet  affection  prove  the  spring  of  woe." 

HOMA. 

[The  hero  and  heroine  of  this  little  mournful  poem, 
were  Robert  Burns  and  Jean  Armour.  "This  was  a 
most  melancholy  affair,"  says  the  poet  in  his  letter  to 
Moore,  "  which  I  cannot  yet  bear  to  reflect  on,  and  had 
very  nearly  given  me  one  or  two  of  the  principal  qualifi- 
cations for  a  place  among  those  who  have  lost  the  chart 
and  mistaken  the  reckoning  of  rationality."  Hogg  and 
Motherwell,  with  an  ignorance  which  is  easier  to  laugh 
at  than  account  for,  say  this  Poem  was  ''  written  on  the 
occasion  of  Alexander  Cunningham's  darling  sweetheart 
Blighting  hira  and  marr>-ing  another : — she  acted  a  wis© 
part."  With  what  care  they  had  read  the  great  poet 
whom  they  jointly  edited  in  is  needless  to  say:  and  how 
they  could  read  the  last  two  lines  of  the  third  verse  and 
commend  the  lady's  wisdom  for  slighting  her  lover, 
seems  a  problem  which  defies  definition.  This  mistake 
was  pointed  out  by  a  friend,  and  corrected  in  a  second 
issue  of  the  volume.] 

I. 

0  THOU  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines. 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep  ' 
Thou  seest  a  wretch  who  inly  pines, 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep  ! 
With  woe  I  nightly  vigils  keep. 

Beneath  thy  wan,  unwarming  beam. 
And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep, 

How  life  and  love  are  all  a  dream. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                       118 

II. 

Full  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  throe, 

1  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 

Keen  recollection's  direful  train. 

Tne  raintly  marked  distant  hill : 

Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Phoebus,  low. 

I  joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn, 

Shall  kiss  the  distant,  western  main. 

Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill : 

My  fondly-fluttering  heart,  be  still: 

VIII. 

Thoa  busy  pow'r,  Remembrance,  cease! 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I  try. 

Ah  !  must  the  agonizing  thrill 

Sore-harass'd  out  with  care  and  grief, 

For  ever  bar  returning  peace  I 

My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye. 

Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief: 

III. 

Or  if  I  slumber,  fancy,  chief, 

No  idly-feign'd  poetic  pains, 

Reigns  haggard-wild,  in  sore  affright : 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamentings  claim ; 

Ev'n  day,  all-bitter,  brings  relief, 

No  shepherd's  pipe— Arcadian  strains ; 

From  such  a  horror-breathing  night 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame: 

The  plighted  faith ;  the  mutual  flame ; 

IX. 

The  oft-attested  Pow'rs  above ; 

0 !  thou  bright  queen,  who  o'er  th'  expanse 

The  promis'd  father's  tender  name ; 

Now  highest  reign'st,  with  boundless  sway! 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love ! 

Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 

Observ'd  us,  fondly-wand'ring,  stray ! 

IV. 

The  time,  unheeded,  sped  away. 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms. 

While  love's  luxurious  pulse  beat  high. 

How  have  the  raptur'd  moments  flown  I 

Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray, 

How  have  I  wish'd  for  fortune's  charms. 

To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 

For  her  dear  sake,  and  hers  alone ! 

And  must  I  think  it ! — is  she  gone, 

X. 

My  secret  heart's  exulting  boast  ? 

Oh  !  scenes  in  strong  remembrarce  set ' 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  ? 

Scenes  never,  never  to  return ! 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  ? 

Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I  forget, 

Again  I  feel,  again  I  burn ! 

V. 

From  ev'ry  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Oh !  can  she  bear  so  base  a  heart, 

Life's  weary  vale  I'll  wander  thro' ; 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth. 

And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I'll  mourn 

As  from  the  fondest  lover  part, 

A  faithless  woman's  broken  vow. 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  1 

Alas !  life's  path  may  be  unsmooth! 
Her  way  may  lie  thro'  rough  distress ! 

Then,  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe, 

XLIl. 

Her  sorrows  share,  and  make  them  less  ? 

DESPONDENCY. 

VI. 

AN    ODE. 

Ye  winged  hours  that  o'er  us  past, 

Enraptur'd  more,  the  more  enjoy'd, 

["  I  think,"  said  Burns,  "  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  plea 

Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast, 

Bures  attending  a  poetic  genius,  that  we  can  give  oui 
woes,  cares,  joys,  and  loves  an  embodied  fore,  in  verse, 

My  fondly-treasur'd  thoughts  employ'd. 

which  to  me  is  ever  immediate  ease."    He  elsewhere 

That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void, 

says,  "  My  passions  raged  like  so  many  devils  till  they 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room  I 

got  vent  in  rhyme."    That  emment  painter,  Fueeli,  on 

Ev'n  ev'ry  ray  of  hope  destroy'd, 

seeing  his  wife  in  a  passion,  said  composedly,  "  Swear 
my  love,  swear  heartily :  you  know  not  how  much  it  wil' 

And  not  a  wish  to  gild  the  gloom ! 

finse  you  !"    This  poem  was  printed  in  the  Kilmarnock 

edition,  and  gives  a  true  picture  of  those  bitter  moment! 

VII. 

experienced  by  the  bard,  when  love  and  fortune  alike 

The  mom  that  warns  th'  approaching  day, 

deceived  him.] 

Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  woe : 

I. 

I  see  the  hours  in  long  array. 

Oppbess'd  with  grief,  oppress'd  with  care, 

That  I  must  suffer,  lingering  slow. 

A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear. 

114 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


I  set  me  down  and  sigh : 
0  life !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 
Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I ! 
Dim-backward  as  I  cast  my  view, 
What  sick'ning  scenes  appear  ! 
What  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  thro* 
Too  justly  I  may  fear ! 
Still  caring,  despairing, 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom ; 

My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er 

But  with  the  closing  tomb ! 


Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life. 
Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife, 

No  other  view  regard ! 
Ev'n  when  the  wished  end's  deny'd. 
Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  ply'd, 

They  bring  their  own  reward : 
Whilst  I,  a  hope-abandon'd  wight, 

Unfitted  with  an  aim, 
Meet  ev'ry  sad  returning  night 
And  joyless  morn  the  same ; 
You,  bustling,  and  justling. 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain ; 
I,  listless,  yet  restless. 
Find  every  prospect  vain. 


How  blest  the  solitary's  lot, 
Who,  all-forgetting,  all  forgot, 

Within  his  humble  cell, 
The  cavern  wild  with  tangling  roots, 
Sits  o'er  his  newly-gather'd  fruits. 

Beside  his  crystal  well! 
Or,  haply,  to  his  ev'ning  thought. 

By  unfrequented  stream. 
The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 
A  faint  collected  dream ; 
While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  heav'n  on  high. 
As  wand'ring,  meand'ring, 
He  views  the  solemn  sky. 


Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  plac'd 
Where  never  human  footstep  trac'd, 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part; 
The  lucky  moment  to  improve. 
And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move. 

With  self-respecting  art : 
But,  ah !  those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joys, 

Which  I  too  keenly  taste. 


The  solitary  can  despise. 
Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest ! 
He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not. 

Or  human  love  or  hate. 
Whilst  I  here,  must  cry  here 
At  perfidy  ingrate ! 

V. 

Oh !  enviable,  early  days'. 

When  dancing  thoughtless  pleasure's  maze^ 

To  care,  to  guilt  unknown ! 
How  ill  exchang'd  for  riper  times. 
To  fee!  the  follies,  or  *he  crimes. 

Of  others,  or  my  own ! 
Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport. 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush. 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court. 
When  manhood  is  your  wish  ! 
The  losses,  the  crosses. 

That  active  man  engage ! 
The  fears  all,  the  tears  all. 
Of  dim  declining  age  ! 


XLIII. 


COTTER'S   SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED  TO   ROBERT   AIKEN,  ESQ. 

"Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure : 
Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile. 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 
Gray. 

[The  house  of  "\\  illiam  Burns  was  the  scene  of  this 
fine,  devout,  and  tranquil  drama,  and  William  himself 
was  the  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband,  who  gives 
life  and  sentiment  to  the  whole.  "  Robert  had  frequent- 
ly remarked  to  me,"  says  Gilbert  Burns,  "  that  he 
thought  there  was  something  peculiarly  venerable  in  the 
phrase,  '  Let  us  worship  God  !'  used  by  a  decent  sober 
head  of  a  family,  introducing  family  worship."  To  this 
sentiment  of  the  author  the  world  is  indebted  for  the 
*<  Cotter's  Saturday  Night."  He  owed  some  little,  how- 
ever, of  the  inspiration  to  Fergusson's  "  Farmer's  Irgle." 
a  poem  of  great  merit.  The  calm-tone  and  holy  compo. 
sure  of  tlie  Cottea"'s  Saturday  Night  have  been  mistaken 
by  Hogg  for  want  of  nerve  and  life.  "  It  is  a  dull,  heavy, 
lifeless  poem,"  he  says,  "  and  the  only  beauty  it  pos- 
sesses, in  my  estimation,  is,  that  it  is  a  sort  of  family 
picture  of  the  poet's  family.  The  worst  thing  of  all,  it 
is  not  original,  but  is  a  decided  imitation  of  Fergussor'a 
beautiful  pastoral,  '  The  Farmer's  Ingle  :'  I  have  a  per- 
fect contempt  for  all  plagiarisms  and  imitations." 
Motherwell  tries  to  qualify  the  censure  of  his  brother 
editor,  by  quotintf  V»clchart's  opinion  —  at  once  lofty 
and  just,  of  this  fine  picture  of  domestic  happiness  and 
devotion.] 


^ 


'^;i 


Q 


l4 


t-.   o  "- 


d  "*  w  "^ 


OF   HOBERT   BURNS. 


115 


Mr  lov'd,  my  honour'd,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  ; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end : 
My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and 
praise : 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways ; 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 

Ah  !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there, 

I  ween ! 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugn ; 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh : 
The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  re- 
pose: 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end. 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
Ind  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hame- 
ward  bend. 


At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ;    ^ 
Th'    expectant  wee-things,   toddlin',   stacher 
thro' 
To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flichterin'  noise  an' 
glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin'  bonnily, 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  Wifie's 
smile. 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care  beguile, 
(lu'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and  his 
toil. 


Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 
At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun' : 
Some  ca'  the  plough,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 
Inyouthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  here'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new- 
gown, 
Or  deposite  her  sair  woq  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship 
be- 


With  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meetj 

An'  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly  spiers: 
The  social  hours,  swift- wing'd,  unnotic'd,  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  unco's  that  he  sees  or  hears; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  Mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears. 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the 
new ; — 
The  Father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 


Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand. 

An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play: 
"  And  0 !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway ! 

And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night  I 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in   vain,   that   sought   the 
Lord  aright!" 


But,  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  Mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek, 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  hia 
name. 
While  Jenny  hafilins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the   Mother  hears  it's  nae  wild, 
worthless  rake. 


Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 
A  strappan  youth;   he  taks  the  Mother*! 
eye; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en ; 
The  Father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and 
kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi' joy, 
But  blate,  an  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  be- 
have; 
The  Mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae 
grave ; 
Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  baim*s  resnected  liko 
the  lave. 


116 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


0  happy  love !  where  love  like  this  is  found! 
0  heart-felt  raptures ! — bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
"  If  heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 
spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair. 
In  other's  arms,  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the 
ev'ning  gale." 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart — 
A  wretch !  a  villain !  lost  to  love  and  truth ! 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts !  dissembling  smooth ! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their 
child? 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distrac- 
tion wild  ? 


But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia's 
food: 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 
That  'yont  the  hallan   snugly  chows  her 
cood: 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood. 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck, 
fell, 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How^  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the 
bell. 


The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  Sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace. 

The  big  ha'-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride ; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And  'Let  us  worship  Gob!'  he  says,  with  so- 
lemn air. 


XIII. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 

aim : 

Perhaps   Dundee's   wild-warbling    measures 

rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name; 

Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heaven-ward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays : 
Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 
The  tickl'd  ear  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 


The  priest-like  Father  reads  the  sacred  page. 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high  ; 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny  ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry  ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 


Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 
shed; 
How  He,   who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second 
name. 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head : 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped, 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land: 
How  he  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand ; 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounc'd  by 
Heaven's  command. 


Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven'st  hVBmvPL 
King, 
The  Saint,  the  Father,  and  thj  Ha^baad 
prays : 
Hope  *  springs  exulting  on  triumi/Liht  wing,'' 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  In  future  days : 
There  e^er  bask  in  uncreated  lays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  tie  bitter  tear. 
Together  hymning  Iheir  Creator's  praise, 
In  sucn  society,  yet  still  move  dear: 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

1  Pope. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


117 


XVII. 
Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 

May  hear,  well  pleas'd,  the  language  of  the 
soul; 
^nd  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 


Then  homeward  all  take  ofif  their  sev'ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
Their  Parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 
That   He,  who  stills   the   raven's   clam'rous 
nest. 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride. 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best. 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But,  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine 
preside.* 


From  scenes  like  these,  old  Scotia's  grandeur 
springs. 
That  makes  her  lov'd   at  home,   rever'd 
abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"  An   honest   man's   the  noblest  work   of 
God;"J 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heav'nly  road. 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind ; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load. 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  Hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd  I 


0  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 
For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content ! 
And,  0 !  may  heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much- 
lov'd  Isle. 

i  Pope. 


XXI. 

0  Thou !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream'd  through  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart : 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  rewar*] !) 
0  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and 
guard ! 


XLTV. 
THE  FIRST   PSALM. 

[This  version  was  first  printed  in  the  second  edition  of 
the  poet's  vsrorks.  It  cannol  be  regarded  as  one  of  his 
happiest  compositions :  it  is  inferior,  not  indeed  in  ease, 
but  in  simplicity  and  antique  vigour  of  language,  to  the 
common  version  used  in  the  Kirk  of  Scothind.  Burns 
had  admitted  "Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook"  into  Creech's 
edition,  and  probably  desired  to  balance  it  with  soms 
thing  at  which  the  devout  could  not  cavil.] 

The  man,  in  life  wherever  plac'd, 

Hath  happiness  in  store. 
Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked's  way, 

Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 

Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 
But  with  humility  and  awe 

Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high, 
And  firm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt 

Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast. 
And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 

Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

For  why  ?  that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  giv'n  them  peace  and  rest. 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne'er  be  truly  blest. 


118 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


XLV. 
THE   FIRST   SIX  VERSES 

OF  THB 

NINETIETH  PSALM. 

[The  ninetieth  Psalm  is  said  to  have  been  a  favourite 
in  the  household  of  William  Burns  :  the  version  used  by 
the  Kirk,  though  unequal,  contains  beautiful  verses,  and 
possesses  the  same  strain  of  sentiment  and  moral  reason- 
ing as  the  poem  of  "  Mm  vraa  made  to  Mourn."  These 
rerses  first  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  edition ;  and  they 
mig,ht  have  been  spared ;  for  in  the  hands  of  a  poet  igno- 
rant of  the  original  language  of  the  Psalmist,  how  could 
they  be  so  correct  in  sense  and  expression  as  in  a  sacred 
strain  is  not  only  desirable  but  necessary  ?] 

0  Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 

Of  all  the  human  race  ! 
Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 

Their  stay  and  dwelling  place  ! 

Before  the  mountains  heav'd  their  heads 

Beneath  Thy  forming  hand, 
Before  this  ponderous  globe  itself 

Arose  at  Thy  command ; 

That  Pow'r  which  rais'd  and  still  upholds 

This  universal  frame. 
From  countless,  unbeginning  time 

Was  ever  still  the  same. 


Those  mighty  periods  of  years 

Which  seem  to  us  so  vast. 
Appear  no  more  before  Thy  sight 

Than  yesterday  that's  past. 

Thou  giv'st  the  word :  Thy  creature,  man, 

Is  to  existence  brought; 
Again  Thou  say'st,  "Ye  sons  of  men, 

Return  ye  into  nought!" 

Thou  layest  them,  with  all  their  cares, 

In  everlasting  sleep ; 
As  with  a  flood  Thou  tak'st  them  off 

With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flow'r. 

In  beauty's  pride  array'd ; 
But  long  ere  night,  cut  down,  it  lies 

All  wither'd  and  decay'd. 


XLVI. 
TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON   TUENINO    ONE    DOWN  WITH    THB    PLOUGH    lH 
APBIL,  1786. 

[This  was  not  the  original  title  of  this  sweet  poem :  I 
have  a  copy  in  the  handwriting  of  Bums  entitled  "  Th» 
Gowan."  This  more  natural  name  he  changed  as  he  did 
his  own,  without  reasonable  cause ;  and  he  changed  it 
about  the  same  time,  for  he  ceased  to  call  himself  Burnes4 
and  his  poem  "  The  Gowan,"  in  the  first  edition  of  hii 
works.  The  field  at  Mossgiel  where  he  turned  down  the 
Daisy  is  said  to  be  the  same  field  where  some  five  months 
before  he  turned  up  the  Mouse;  but  this  seems  likely 
only  to  those  who  are  little  acquainted  with  tillage — who 
think  that  in  time  and  place  reside  the  chief  charms  of 
verse  ;  and  who  feel  not  the  beauty  of  "  The  Daisy,"  till 
they  seek  and  find  the  spot  on  which  it  grew.  Sublime 
morality  and  the  deepest  emotions  of  the  soul  pass  for 
little  with  those  who  remember  only  what  genius  love« 
to  forget.] 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 

Thou' s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ;  ^i- 

For  I  ^"^n  crush  amang  the  stoure  ^'•••^^ 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield. 
High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

0'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field. 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  I 


OF  KOBERT  BURNS.                                       llh 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 

But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang, 

Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 

Let  time  and  chance  determine ; 

By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 

Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang. 

And  guileless  trust, 

Perhaps,  turn  out  a  sermon. 

'Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

11. 

Ye'll  try  the  world  soon,  my  lad, 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd  I 

Ye'll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad. 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye : 

Of  prudent  lore, 

For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought. 

'Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 

Ev'n  when  your  end's  attain'd ; 

And  whelm  him  o'er  I 

And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nought. 

Where  ev'ry  nerve  is  strained, 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 

III. 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

I'll  no  say  men  are  villains  a' ;                        ^ 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 

The  real,  harden'd  wicked. 

'TiU  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heav'n, 

Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink ! 

Are  to  a  few  restricked ; 

But,  och !  mankind  are  unco  weak. 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate. 

An'  little  to  be  trusted  ; 

That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date  ; 

If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake. 

Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted  1 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 

'Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

IV. 

Shall  be  thy  doom  1 

Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  Fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  should  na  censure 

For  still  th'  important  end  of  life 
They  equally  may  answer ; 

A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart. 

xLvn. 

Tho'  poortith  hourly  stare  him ; 

A  man  may  tak  a  neebor's  part. 

EPISTLE   TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 

MAY,  1786. 

V. 

[Andrew  Aikin,  to  whom  this  poem  of  good  counsel  is 

Ay  free,  aff  han'  your  story  tell. 

addressed,  was  one  of  the  sons  of  Robert  Aiken,  writer  in 

When  wi'  a  bosom  crony ; 

Ayr,  to  whom  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  is  inscribed. 

But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel* 

He  became  a  merchant  m  Liverpool,  wi*b  what  success 
we  are  not  informed,  and  died  at  St.  Petersburgh.    The 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 

poet  has  bean  charged  with  a  desire  to  teach  hypocrisy 

Conceal  yoursel'  as  weel's  ye  can 

rather  than  truth  to  his  "Andrew  dear;"  but  surely  to 

Frae  critical  dissection ; 

conceal  one's  own  thoughts  and  discover  those  of  others, 

But  keek  thro'  ev'ry  other  man, 

cii«c  8?arcoly  be  called  hypocritical :  it  is,  in  fact,  a  ver- 
■i  n  of  the  celebrated  precept  of  prudence,  «  Thoughts 

Wi'  sharpen'd,  sly  inspection. ' 

close  and  looks  loose."    Whether  he  profited  by  all  the 

counsel  showered  upon  him  by  the  muse  we  know  not: 

VI. 

be  was  much  respected— his  name  embalmed,  like  that 

The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-plac'd  love, 

of  his  father,  in  the  poetry  of  his  friend,  is  nat  likely  soon 
to  perish  ] 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it ; 

But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove. 

I. 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it ; 

I  LANO  hae  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend, 

I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin. 

A  something  to  have  sent  you, 

The  hazard  of  concealing ; 

Though  it  should  Aerve  nae  ither  end 

But,  och !  it  hardens  a'  within, 

Than  just  a  kind  memento ; 

And  petrifies  the  feeling ! 

120 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her ; 
And  gather  gear  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  justified  by  honour; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Nor  for  a  train-attendant ; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

VIII. 

The  fear  o'  Hell's  a  hangman's  whip, 

To  hand  the  wretch  in  order ; 
But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip, 

Let  that  ay  be  your  border : 
Its  slighest  touches,  instant  pause — 

Debar  a'  side  pretences ; 
And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 


The  great  Creator  to  revere 

Must  sure  become  the  creature ; 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 

And  ev'n  the  rigid  feature  : 
Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range. 

Be  complaisance  extended  ; 
An  Atheist  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  offended ! 


When  ranting  round  in  pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  may  be  blinded ; 
Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sting. 

It  may  be  little  minded ; 
But  when  on  life  we're  tempest-driv'n, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker — 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  Heav'n 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor ! 


Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth ! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting! 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting ! 
In  ploughman  phrase, '  God  send  you  speed. 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser : 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede 

Thau  ever  did  th'  "adviser ! 


XLVIII. 
TO  A  LOUSE, 

ON  SEEING  ONE   ON  A  LADT's   BONNET,  AT   CHPBC«. 

[A  Mauchline  incident  of  a  Mauchljne  lady  is  related 
in  this  poem,  wliicli  to  many  of  the  softer  friends  of  the 
bard  was  anything  but  welcome  :  it  appeared  in  the  Kit 
marnock  copy  of  his  Poems,  and  remonstrance  and  per- 
suasion were  alike  tried  in  vain  to  keep  it  oat  oi  ttJ 
Edinl)urgh  edition.  Instead  of  regarding  it  us  a  seasOBr 
able  rebuke  to  pride  and  vanity,  some  of  liis  learned 
commentators  called  it  coarse  and  vulgar — those  classic 
persons  might  have  remembered  that  Julian,  no  vulgar 
person,  but  an  emperor  and  a  scholar,  wore  a  populoui 
beard,  and  was  proud  of  it.J 

Ha  !  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie ! 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly  : 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely, 

Owre  gauze  and  lace ; 
Tho'  faith,  I  fear,  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin',  blastit  wonner. 
Detested,  shunn'd,  by  saunt  an'  sinner. 
How  dare  you  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  lady ! 
Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar's  haffet  squattle  ; 
There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle 
Wi'  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations ; 
Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne'er  daur  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  hand  you  there,  ye're  out  o'  sight. 
Below  the  fatt'rells,  snug  an'  tight ; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet!  ye'll  no  be  right 

'Till  ye've  got  on  it, 
The  vera  topmost,  tow'ring  height 

0'  Miss's  bonnet. 

My  sooth !  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out. 
As  plump  an'  gray  as  onie  grozet : 

0  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum, 
I'd  gie  you  sic  a  hearty  doze  o't. 

Wad  dross  your  drodduinl 

1  wad  na  been  surpris'd  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flainen  toy ; 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On's  wyliecoat ; 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi !  fie ! 

How  daur  ye  do't  ? 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                       121 

0,  /enny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 

Spare't  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it, 

An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread ! 

The  lads  in  black ! 

Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 

The  blastie'8  makin'  I 

Rives't  aflf  their  back. 

Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I  dread. 

Are  notice  takin' ! 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye're  skaithing, 

It's  just  the  blue-gown  badge  an'  claitbing 

0  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  ua 

0'  saunts ;  tak  that,  ye  lea'e  them  naething 

To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us ! 

To  ken  them  by. 

It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us 

Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen. 

An'  foolish  notion ; 

Like  you  or  I. 

What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'e  us, 

I've  sent  you  here  some  rhyming  ware, 

And  ev'n  devotion  I 

A'  that  I  bargain'd  for,  an'  mair ; 

^ 

Sae,  when  you  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

• 

I  will  expect 
Yon  sang,2  yg'u  gen't  wi  cannie  care, 

And  no  neglect. 

XLIX. 

Tho'  faith,  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  sing ! 

EPISTLE   TO  J.   RANKINE, 

My  muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing ! 

Fve  play'd  mysel'  a  bonnie  spring. 

ENCLOSING  SOME   POEMS. 

An'  danc'd  my  fill  I 

[The  person  to  whom  these  verses  are  addressed  lived 

I'd  better  gaen  an'  sair't  the  king. 

at  Adamhill  in  Ayrshire,  and  merited  the  praise  of  rough 

At  Bunker's  Hill 

and  ready-witted,  which  the  poem  bestows.    The  hu- 

morous dream  alluded  to,  was  related  by  way  of  rebuke 

'Twas  ae  night  lately,  in  my  fun. 

to  a  west  country  earl,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  callii^ 

I  gaed  a  roving  wi'  the  gun, 

all  people  of  low  degree  "  Brutes !  — damned  brutes." 
•'  I  dreamed  that  1  was  dead,"  said  the  rustic  satirist  to 

An'  brought  a  paitrick  to  the  grun', 
A  bonnie  hen. 

his  superior,  "  and  condemned  for  the  company  I  kept. 

When  I  came  to  hell-door,  where  mony  of  your  lordship's 

And,  as  the  twilight  was  begun. 

friends  gang,  I  chappit,  and  '  VVha  are  ye,  and  Where 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 

d'ye  come  frae?'  Satan  exclaimed.    I  just  said,  that  my 

Bame  was  Rankine,and  1  came  frae  yere  lordship's  land. 

The  poor  wee  thing  was  little  hurt ; 

'Awawi' you,' cried  Satan;  '  ye  canna  come  here  :  hell's 

I  straikit  it  a  wee  for  sport. 

'bu  o'  his  lordship's  damned  brutes  already.'  "] 

Ne'er  thinkin'  they  wad  fash  me  foi't ; 

0  BOUGH,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine, 

But,  deil-ma-care  1 

The  wale  o'  cocks  for  fun  an'  drinkin' ! 

Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 

There's  monie  godly  folks  are  thinkin', 

The  hale  affair. 

Your  dreams'  an'  tricks 

Some  auld  ns'd  hands  had  taen  a  ncte, 

Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin' 

That  sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shot ; 

Straught  to  auld  Nick's. 

I  was  suspected  for  the  plot ; 

I  scorn' J  to  lie ; 

Ye  hae  sae  monie  cracks  an'  cants, 

So  gat  the  whissle  o'  my  groat, 

And  in  your  wicked,  dru'ken  rants, 

An'  pay't  the  fee. 

Ye  mak  a  devil  o'  the  saunts, 

An'  fill  them  fou ; 

But,  by  my  gun,  o'  guns  the  wale, 

And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  an'  wants, 

An'  by  my  pouther  an'  my  hail. 

Axe  a'  seen  through. 

An'  by  my  hen,  an'  by  her  tail. 

I  vow  an'  swear ! 

Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 

The  game  shall  pay  o'er  moor  an'  dale, 

That  holy  robe,  0  dinna  tear  it  1 

For  this  niest  year. 

1  A  certain  humorons  dream  of  his  was  then  making  a 

2  A  song  he  had  promised  the  author 

voise  in  (he  country-side. 

122 


THE   POETICAL  WOKKS 


As  soon's  the  clockin-time  is  by, 
An'  the  wee  pouts  begun  to  cry, 
L — d,  I'se  hae  sportin'  by  an'  by, 

For  my  gowd  guinea ; 
Tho'  I  should  herd  the  buckskin  kye 

Por't,  in  Virginia. 

Trowth,  they  had  muckle  for  to  blame  I 
'Twas  neither  broken  wing  nor  limb. 
But  twa-three  draps  about  the  wame 

Scarce  thro'  the  feathers; 
An'  baith  a  yellow  George  to  claim, 

An'  thole  their  blethers ! 

It  pits  me  ay  as  mad's  a  hare  ; 

So  I  can  rhyme  nor  write  nae  mair; 

But  pennyworths  again  is  fair, 

When  time's  expedient: 
Meanwhile  I  am,  respected  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient. 


ON  A  SCOTCH  BARD, 

GONE   TO    THE  WEST    INDIES. 

[Burns  iii  tiiis  Poem,  as  well  as  in  others,  speaks  open- 
ly of  his  tastes  and  passions:  his  own  fortunes  are  dwelt 
on  with  painful  minuteness,  and  his  errors  are  recorded 
with  the  accuracy,  but  not  the  seriousness  of  the  con- 
fessional. He  seems  to  have  been  fond  of  taking  himself 
to  task.  It  was  written  when  ''  Hungry  ruin  had  him.in 
the  wind,"  and  emigration  to  the  West  Indies  was  the 
only  refuge  which  he  could  think  of,  or  his  friends 
Buggest,  from  the  persecutions  of  fortune.] 

A'  YE  wha  live  by  sowps  o'  drink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  and  never  think, 

Come,  mourn  wi'  me ! 
Our  billie's  gien  us  a'  a  jink, 

An'  owre  the  sea. 

Lament  him  a'  ye  rantin'  core, 
Wha  dearly  like  a  random-splore, 
Nae  mair  he'll  join  the  merry  roar 

In  social  key ; 
For  now  he's  taen  anither  shore, 

An'  owre  the  sea ! 

The  bonnie  lasses  weel  may  wiss  him. 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  place  him  ; 


The  widows,  wives,  an'  a'  may  bless  him, 
Wi'  tearfu'  e'e; 

For  weel  I  wat  they'll  sairly  miss  him 

That's  owre  the  sea  I 

0  Fortune,  they  hae  room  to  grumble ! 
Hadst  thou  taen'  aff  some  drowsy  bummle 
Wha  can  do  nought  but  fyke  and  fumble, 

'Twad  been  nae  plea, 
But  he  was  gleg  as  onie  wumble, 

That's  owre  the  sea  I 

Auld,  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear. 
An'  stain  them  wi'  the  saut,  saut  tear ; 
'Twill  mak  her  poor  auld  heart,  I  fear, 

In  flinders  flee; 
He  was  her  laureate  monie  a  year. 

That's  owre  the  sea  I 

He  saw  Misfortune's  cauld  nor-west 
Lang  mustering  up  a  bitter  blast ; 
A  jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be ! 
So,  took  a  birth  afore  the  mast, 

An'  owre  the  sea. 

To  tremble  under  fortune's  cummock, 
On  scarce  a  bellyfu'  o'  drummock, 
Wi'  his  proud,  independent  stomach. 

Could  ill  agree ; 
So,  row't  his  hurdles  in  a  hammock, 

An'  owre  the  sea. 

He  ne'er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding, 
Yet  coin  his  pouches  wad  na  bide  in ; 
Wi'  him  it  ne'er  was  under  hiding : 

He  dealt  it  free ; 
The  muse  was  a'  that  he  took  pride  in, 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel, 
An'  hap  him  in  a  cozie  biel ; 
Ye'll  find  him  ay  a  dainty  chiel, 

And  fou  o'  glee ; 
He  wad  na  wrang'd  the  vera  deil. 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie  I 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie ; 
But  may  ye  flourish  like  a  lily. 

Now  bonnilie ! 
m  toast  ye  in  my  hindmost  gillie. 

The'  owre  the  soa  1 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


123 


XJ. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

"  The  vaj'ant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer  ? 
O-  'T'-.a,  does  he  regard  his  single  woes? 
But  when,  alas  !  he  multiplies  himself, 
To  dearer  selves,  to  the  lov'd  tender  ^air, 
To  tl'ose  whose  bliss,  whose  beings  hang  upon  him, 
To  helpless  children !  then,  O  then !  he  feels 
The  point  of  misery  fest'ring  in  his  heart. 
And  weiikly  weeps  his  fortune  like  a  coward. 
Such,  such  am  I !  undone."  Thomson. 

[In  these  serious  stanzas,  where  the  comic,  as  in  the 
Jines  to  the  Scottish  bard,  are  not  permitted  to  mingle. 
Burns  bids  farewell  to  all  on  whom  his  heart  had  any 
claim.  He  seems  to  have  looked  on  the  sea  as  only  a 
place  of  peril,  and  on  the  West  Indies  as  a  charnel-house.] 

I. 
Farewell,  old  Scotia's  bleak  domains, 
Far  dearer  than  the  torrid  plains 

Where  rich  ananas  blow  ! 
Farewell,  a  mother's  blessing  dear  1 
A  brother's  sigh  !  a  sister's  tear ! 
My  Jean's  heart-rending  throe ! 
Farewell,  my  Bess !  tho'  thou'rt  bereft 

Of  my  parental  care, 
A  faithful  brother  I  have  left, 
My  part  in  him  thou'lt  share ! 
Adieu  too,  to  you  too, 

My  Smith,  my  bosom  frien' ; 
When  kindly  you  mind  me, 
0  then  befriend  my  Jean  I 


II. 

What  bursting  anguish  tears  my  heart  I 
From  *hee,  my  Jeany,  must  I  part ! 
Thou  weeping  answ'rest — "  No  !" 
Alas !  misfortune  stares  my  face. 
And  points  to  ruin  and  disgrace, 

I  for  thy  sake  must  go  I 
Thee,  Hamilton,  and  Aiken  dear, 

A  grateful,  warm  adieu; 
I,  with  a  much-indebted  tear, 
Shall  still  remember  you  I 
All-hail  then,  the  gale  then. 

Wafts  me  from  thee,  dear  shore  I 
It  rustles,  and  whistles 
I'll  never  see  thee  more  1 


UI. 
WRITTEN 

ON   THE  BLANK  LEAF   OF  A   COPT  OF   MT   POEMS,   PRE- 
SENTED TO  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART,  THEN  MARRIED. 

This  is  another  of  the  poet's  lamentslicns,  at  the 
prospect  of  "  torrid  climes"  and  the  roars  of  tho  Atl.mlic 
To  Burns,  Scotland  was  the  land  of  promise,  the  west  of 
Scotland  his  paradise  ;  and  the  land  of  dread,  Jamaica ! 
I  found  these  Imes  copied  by  the  poet  mto  a  volumt 
which  he  presented  to  Dr.  Geddes :  they  were  addressed, 
it  is  thought,  to  the  '<  Dear  E."  of  his  earliest  corre 
spondence.] 

Once  fondly  lov'd  and  still  remember'd  dear; 

Sweet  early  oljcct  of  my  youthful  vows! 
Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  warm,  sincere,- 

Friendship  I  'tis  all  cold  duty  now  allows. 

And  when  you  read  the  simple  artless  rhymes. 
One  friendly  sigh  for  him — he  asks  no  more,— 

Who  distant  burns  in  flaming  torrid  climes, 
Or  haply  lies  beneath  th'  Atlantic  roar. 


LHI. 
A    DEDICATION 

TO 

GAVIN   HAMILTON,    ESQ. 

[The  gentleman  to  whom  these  manly  lines  are  ad- 
dressed, was  of  good  birth,  and  of  an  open  and  generous 
nature  :  he  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  gentry  of  the  west 
to  encourage  the  muse  of  Coila  to  stretch  her  wings  at 
full  length.  His  free  life,  and  free  speech,  exposed  him 
to  the  censures  of  that  stern  divine,  Daddie  Auld,  who 
charged  him  with  the  sin  of  absenting  himself  from 
church  for  three  successive  days;  for  having,  without 
the  fear  of  God's  servant  before  him,  profanely  said 
damn  it,  in  his  presence,  and  for  having  gallopped  on 
Sunday.  These  charges  were  contemptuously  dismissed 
by  the  presbyterial  court.  Hamilton  was  the  brother  ot 
the  Charlotte  to  whose  charms,  on  the  banks  of  Devon, 
Burns,  it  is  said,  paid  the  homage  of  a  lover,  as  well  ai 
of  a  poet.  The  poem  had  a  place  in  the  Kilmarnock  edi* 
tion,  but  not  as  an  express  dedication.] 

Expect  na.  Sir,  in  this  narration, 
A  fleechin',  fleth'rin  dedication, 
To  roose  you  up,  an'  ca'  you  guid, 
An'  sprung  o'  great  an'  noble  bluid. 
Because  ye're  surnam'd  like  his  Grace ; 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race ; 
Then  when  I'm  tir'd — and  sae  are  ye, 
Wi'  monie  a  fulsome,  sinfu'  lie 


124 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


Set  up  a  face,  how  I  stop  short, 
For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do — maun  do,  Sir,  wi'  them  wha 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a  wamefou ; 
For  me  !  sae  laigh  I  needna  bow, 
For,  Lord  be  thankit,  I  can  plough ; 
A.nd  when  I  downa  yoke  a  naig, 
Then,  Lord  be  thankit,  I  can  beg ; 
Sae  I  shall  say,  an'  that's  nae  flatt'rin', 
It's  just  sic  poet,  an'  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him, 
Or  else,  I  fear  some  ill  ane  skelp  him. 
He  may  do  weel  for  a'  he's  done  yet. 
But  only — he's  no  just  begun  yet. 

The  Patron,  (Sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me, 
I  winna  lie,  come  what  will  o'  me,) 
On  ev'ry  hand  it  will  allow'd  be, 
He's  just — nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I  readily  and  freely  grant. 
He  downa  see  a  poor  man  want ; 
AVhat's  no  his  ain,  he  winna  tak  it ; 
What  ance  he  says,  he  winna  break  it ; 
Ought  he  can  lend  he'll  no  refus't, 
'Till  aft  his  guidness  is  abus'd  ; 
And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wrang, 
Ev'n  that,  he  does  na  mind  it  lang : 
As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father. 
He  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then,  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a'  that ; 
Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca'  that ; 
It's  naething  but  a  milder  feature. 
Of  our  poor  sinfu',  corrupt  nature : 
Ye'll  get  the  best  o'  moral  works, 
'Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks, 
Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 
Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 

That  he's  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need. 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed. 
It's  no  thro'  terror  of  damnation ; 
It's  just  a  carnal  inclination. 

Morality,  thou  deadly  bane. 
Thy  tens  o'  thousands  thou  hast  slain ! 
Vain  is  his  hope,  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth  and  justice  ! 

No — stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack ; 
Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back ; 


Steal  thro'  a  winnock  frae  a  whore. 
But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door; 
Be  to  the  poor  like  onie  whunstane, 
And  hand  their  noses  to  the  grunstane, 
Ply  ev'ry  art  o'  legal  thieving ; 
No  matter — stick  to  sound  believing. 

Learn  three-mile  pray'rs  an'  half-mile  graces^ 
Wi'  weel-spread  looves,  and  lang  wry  faces ; 
Grunt  up  a  solemn,  lengthen'd  groan. 
And  damn  a'  parties  but  your  own ; 
I'll  warrant  then,  ye're  nae  deceiver, 
A  steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 

0  ye  wha  leave  the  springs  o'  Calvin, 
For  gumlie  dubs  of  your  ain  delvin' ! 
Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 

Ye'll  some  day  squeel  in  quaking  terror ! 
When  Vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath. 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath ; 
When  Euin,  with  his  sweeping  besom, 
Just  frets  'till  Heav'n  commission  gies  him 
While  o'er  the  harp  pale  Mis'ry  moans, 
And  strikes  the  ever-deep'ning  tones. 
Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans ' 

Your  pardon.  Sir,  for  this  digression, 

1  maist  forgat  my  dedication ; 
But  when  divinity  comes  cross  me 
My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 

So,  Sir,  ye  see  'twas  nae  daft  vapoui, 

But  I  maturely  thought  it  proper, 

When  a'  my  works  I  did  review. 

To  dedicate  them.  Sir,  to  you  : 

Because  (ye  need  na  tak  it  ill) 

I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel'. 

Then  patronize  them  wi'  your  favour, 

And  your  petitioner  shall  ever — 

I  had  amaist  said,  ever  pray, 

But  that's  a  word  I  need  na  say  : 

For  prayin'  I  hae  little  skill  o't  ; 

I'm  baith  dead  sweer,  an'  wretched  ill  o't  j 

But  I'se  repeat  each  poor  man's  pray'r. 

That  kens  or  hears  about  you.  Sir — 

"  May  ne'er  misfortune's  gowling  bark, 
Howl  thro'  the  dwelling  o'  the  Clerk ! 
May  ne'er  his  gen'rous,  honest  heart. 
For  that  same  gen'rous  spirit  smart ! 
May  Kennedy's  far-honour'd  name 
Lang  beet  his  hymeneal  flame. 
Till  Hamiltons,  at  least  a  dizen. 
Are  frae  their  nuptial  labours  risen : 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS.                                       I2t 

Five  bonnie  lasses  round  their  table, 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldom  fash't  him. 

And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  an'  able 

Except  the  moment  that  they  crush't  him  ; 

To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel, 

For  sune  as  chance  or  fate  had  hush't  'em. 

By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel ! 

Tho'  e'er  sae  short. 

May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual  rays, 

Then  wi'  a  rhyme  or  song  he  lash't  'em. 

Shine  on  the  ev'ning  o'  his  days ; 

And  thought  it  sport. 

'Till  his  wee  curlie  John's-ier-oe, 

When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow, 

Tho'  he  was  bred  to  kintra  wark. 

The  last,  sad,  mournful  rites  bestow." 

And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stark. 

Yet  that  was  never  Robin's  mark 

I  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion, 

To  mak  a  man ; 

With  complimentary  efifusion : 

But  tell  him  he  was  learned  and  dark. 

But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavours 

Ye  roos'd  him  than  t 

Are  blest  with  Fortune's  smiles  and  favours, 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 
Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  pow'rs  above  prevent) 

LV. 

That  iron-hearted  carl,  Want, 

Attended  in  his  grim  advances 

LETTER  TO  JAMES  TENNANT, 

By  sad  mistakes  and  black  mischances. 

OF    GLENCONNEK. 

While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly  him. 

[The  west  country  farmer  to  whom  this  letter  wa^ 

Make  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am. 

sent,  was  a  social  man.     The  poet  depended  on  his  judg- 

Your  humble  servant  then  no  more ; 

ment  in  the  choice  of  a  farm,  when  he  resolved  to  quit 

For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor ! 

the  harp  for  the  plough :  but  as  EUisland  was  his  choice, 

But  by  a  poor  man's  hope  in  Heav'n ! 

his  skill  mav  be  questioned.] 

While  recollection's  pow'r  is  given, 

Attld  comrade  dear,  and  brither  sinner. 

If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life. 

How's  a'  the  folk  about  Glenconner  ? 

The  victim  sad  of  fortune's  strife. 

How  do  you  this  blae  eastlin  wind, 

I,  thro'  the  tender  gushing  tear. 

That's  like  to  blaw  a  bodj'  blind  ? 

Should  recognise  my  Master  dear. 

For  me,  my  faculties  are  frozen. 

If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together. 

My  dearest  member  nearly  dozen'd. 

Then  Sir,  your  hand — my  friend  and  brother. 

I've  sent  you  here,  by  Johnie  Simson, 

Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on ; 

Smith,  wi'  his  sympathetic  feeling. 
An'  Reid,  to  common  sense  appealing. 

Philosophers  have  fought  and  wrangled. 

LTV. 

An'  meikle  Greek  and  Latin  mangled. 

Till  wi'  their  logic-jargon  tir'd, 

ELEGY 

An'  in  the  depth  of  science  mir'd, 

To  common  sense  they  now  appeal, 

Olf 

What  wives  and  wabsters  see  and  feel. 

THE  DEATH   OF  ROBERT  RUISSEAUX. 

But,  hark  ye,  friend !     I  charge  you  strictlj 

[Cromek  ^xml  these  verses  among  the  loose  papers  of 

Peruse  them,  an'  return  them  quickly, 

Burrs,  and  printed  them  in  the  Reliques.    They  contain 

For  now  I'm  grown  sae  cursed  douce 

K  portion  of  the  character  of  the  poet,  record  his  habitual 

I  pray  and  ponder  butt  the  house. 

sarelessiiesB  in  worldly  affairs,  and  hia  desire  to  be  dis- 
tinguished.] 

My  shins,  my  lane,  I  there  sit  roastin', 

Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown,  an'  Boston ; 

Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair, 

Till  by  an'  by,  if  I  hand  on. 

He'll  gabble  rhyme,  nor  sing  nae  mair, 

I'll  grunt  a  real  gospel  groan : 

Cauld  poverty,  wi'  hungry  stare, 

Already  I  begin  to  try  it. 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  Mm ; 

To  cast  my  e'en  up  like  a  pyet. 

Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  cankert  care, 

When  by  the  gun  she  tumbles  o'er, 

E'er  mair  come  near  him. 

Flutt'ring  an'  gasping  in  her  jfore : 

126 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Sae  shortly  you  shall  see  me  bright, 
A  burning  and  a  shining  lic:ht. 

My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 
The  ace  an'  wale  of  honest  men : 
When  bending  down  wi'  auld  gray  hairs. 
Beneath  the  load  of  years  and  cares, 
INIay  He  who  made  him  still  support  him, 
An'  views  beyond  the  grave  comfort  him, 
Ilis  worthy  fam'ly  far  and  near, 
God  bless  them  a'  wi'  grace  and  gear ! 

My  auld  schoolfellow,  preacher  Willie, 

The  manly  tar,  my  mason  Billie, 

An'  Auchenbay,  I  wish  him  joy; 

If  he's  a  parent,  lass  or  boy. 

May  he  be  dad,  and  Meg  the  mither. 

Just  five-and-forty  years  thegither ! 

An'  no  forgetting  wabster  Charlie, 

I'm  tauld  he  offers  very  fairly. 

An'  Lord,  remember  singing  Sannock, 

WI'  hale  breeks,  saxpence,  an'  a  bannock, 

An'  next  my  auld  acquaintance,  Nancy, 

Since  she  is  fitted  to  her  fancy ; 

An'  her  kind  stars  hae  airted  till  her 

A  good  chiel  wi'  a  pickle  siller. 

My  kindest,  best  respects  I  sen'  it. 

To  cousin  Kate,  an'  sister  Janet ; 

Tell  them,  frae  me,  wi'  chiels  be  cautious. 

For,  faith,  they'll  aiblins  fin'  them  fashious ; 

To  grant  a  heart  is  fairly  civil. 

But  to  grant  the  maidenhead's  the  devil. 

An'  lastly,  Jamie,  for  yoursel'. 

May  guardian  angels  tak  a  spell. 

An'  steer  you  seven  miles  south  o'  hell : 

But  first,  before  you  see  heaven's  glory, 

May  ye  get  monie  a  merry  story, 

Monie  a  laugh,  and  monie  a  drink. 

And  aye  eneugh,  o'  needfu'  clink. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  an'  joy  be  wi'  you, 
For  my  sake  this  I  beg  it  o'  you. 
Assist  poor  Simson  a'  ye  can, 
Ye'll  fin'  him  just  an  honest  man ; 
Sae  I  conclude,  and  quat  my  chanter, 
Vour's,  saint  or  sinner, 

Rob  the  Ranter. 


LVT. 

ON   THB 

BIRTH  OF   A  POSTHUMOUS   CHILD. 

[From  letters  addressed  by  Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  it 
would  appear  that  this  '•  Sweet  Flow'ret,  pledge  o'  ineik  • 
love,"  was  the  only  son  of  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Henri,  who 
had  married  a  French  gentleman.  Tlie  mother  snoz.  foc- 
lowed  the  father  to  the  grave :  she  died  in  the  south  of 
France,  v\rhither  she  had  gone  in  search  of  health] 

Sweet  flow'ret,  pledge  o'  meikle  love. 

And  ward  o'  mony  a  pray'r. 
What  heart  o'  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 

Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair  ! 

November  hirples  o'er  the  lea, 

Chill  on  thy  lovely  form ; 
And  gane,  alas  !  the  shelt'ring  tree. 

Should  shield  thee  frae  the  storm. 

May  He  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour. 

And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw, 
Protect  thee  frae  the  driving  show'r, 

The  bitter  frost  and  snaw ! 

May  He,  the  friend  of  woe  and  want. 
Who  heals  life's  various  stounds. 

Protect  and  guard  the  mother-plant, 
And  heal  her  cruel  wounds ! 

But  late  she  flourish'd,  rooted  fast. 

Fair  on  the  summer-morn : 
Now  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 

Unshelter'd  and  forlorn. 

Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem, 

Unscath'd  by  ruflfian  hand  ! 
And  from  thee  many  a  parent  stem 

Arise  to  deck  our  land ! 


LVII. 
TO   MISS   CRUIKSHANK, 

A   VERT  YOUNG   LADY. 

WRITTEN   OF   THE   BLANK   LEAF   OF  A  BOOK;  PRESENTID 
TO   HER   BY   THE   AUTHOR. 

[The  beauteous  rose-bud  of  this  poem  was  one  of  the 
daughters  of  Mr.  Cruikshank,  a  master  in  the  High  School 
of  Edinburgh,  at  whose  table  Burns  was  a  frequent 
guest  during  the  year  of  hope  which  he  spent  in  th« 
northern  metropolis.] 


1                                                 OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                         12T 

Beauteous  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 

Your  bonnie  face  sae  mild  and  sweet 

Blooming  in  thy  early  May, 

His  honest  heart  enamours. 

Never  niay'st  thou,  lovely  flow'r, 

And  faith  ye'll  no  be  lost  a  whit, 

Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  show'r ! 

Tho'  waired  on  Willie  Chalmers. 

Never  Boreas'  hoary  path, 

Never  Earns'  poisonous  breath, 

Never  baleful  stellar  lights, 

III.           , 

Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights  I 

Auld  Truth  hersel'  might  swear  ye're  fair, 

Never,  never  reptile  thief 

And  Honour  safely  back  her. 

Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf ! 

And  Modesty  assume  your  air, 

Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercely  viev? 

And  ne'er  a  ane  mistak'  her: 

Thy  bosom  blushing  still  with  dew ! 

And  sic  twa  love-inspiring  een 
Might  fire  even  holy  Palmers ; 

May'st  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem, 

Nae  wonder  then  they've  fatal  been 

Richly  deck  thy  native  stem: 

To  honest  Willie  Chalmers. 

'Till  some  evening,  sober,  calm. 

Dropping  dews  and  breathing  balm, 

While  all  around  the  woodland  rings. 

IV. 

And  ev'ry  bird  thy  requiem  sings  ; 

I  doubt  na  fortune  may  you  shore 

Thou,  amid  the  dirgeful  sound. 

Some  mim-mou'd  pouthered  priestie. 

Shed  thy  dying  honours  round. 

Fu'  lifted  up  wi'  Hebrew  lore. 

And  resign  to  parent  earth 

And  band  upon  his  breastie : 

•^he  loveliest  form  she  e'er  gave  birth. 

But  Oh !  what  signifies  to  you 
His  lexicons  and  grammars ; 

The  feeling  heart's  the  royal  blue, 
And  that's  wi'  Willie  Chalmers. 

LVIII. 

V. 

WILLIE   CHALMERS. 

Some  gapin'  glowrin'  countra  laird, 

[Lockhart  first  gave  this  poetic  curiosity  to  the  world : 

May  warstle  for  your  favour  ; 

he  copied  it  from  a  small  manuscript  volume  of  Poems 

May  claw  his  lug,  and  straik  his  beard. 

given  by  Burns  to  Lady  Harriet  Don,  with  an  explanation 

And  hoast  up  some  palaver. 

in  these  words  :  *'  W.  Chalmers,  a  gentleman  in  A>Tshire, 

My  bonnie  maid,  before  ye  wed 

a  particular  friend  of  mine,  asked  me  to  write  a  poetic 

epistle  to  a  young  lady,  his  Dulcinea.    I  had  seen  her, 

Sic  clumsy-witted  hammers. 

but  was  scarcely  acquainted  with  her,  and  wrote  as  fol- 

Seek Heaven  for  help,  and  barefit  skelp 

lows."    Chalmers  was  a  writer  in  Ayr.    I  have  not  heard 

Awa'  wi'  Willie  Chalmers. 

that  the  lady  was  influenced  by  this  volunteer  effusion: 

ladies  are  seldom  rhymed  into  the  matrimonial  snare.] 

VI. 

I. 

Wi'  braw  new  branks  in  mickle  pride, 

Forgive  the  Bard !  my  fond  regard 

And  eke  a  braw  new  brechan. 

For  ane  that  shares  my  bosom, 

My  Pegasus  I'm  got  astride. 

Inspires  my  muse  to  gie  'm  his  dues. 

And  up  Parnassus  pechin ; 

For  de'il  a  hair  I  roose  him. 

Whiles  owre  a  bush  wi'  downward  cmsh 

May  powers  aboon  unite  you  soon, 

The  doitie  beastie  stammers ; 

And  fructify  your  amours, — 

Then  up  he  gets  and  oflF  he  sets 

And  every  year  come  in  mair  dear 

For  sake  o'  Willie  Chalmers. 
II. 

To  you  and  Willie  Chalmers. 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  that  weel  kenn  d  name 

May  cost  a  pair  o'  blushes  ; 

I  am  nae  stranger  to  your  fame, 

N«r  Ms  warm  urged  wishes. 

128 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


LIX. 

LTINO  AT   A   REVEREND  FRIEND'S   HOUSE  ONE   NIGHT, 
THE   AUTHOR    LEFT    THE   FOLLOWING 

VERSES 

IN   THE    ROOM   WHERE   HE   SLEPT. 

[Of  the  origin  of  these  verses  Gilbert  Burns  gives  the 
following  account.  "The  first  time  Robert  heard  the 
epinnet  played  was  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Lawrie,  then 
minister  of  Loudon,  now  in  Glasgow.  Dr  Lawrie  has 
several  daughters;  one  of  them  played;  the  father  and 
the  mother  led  down  the  dance;  the  rest  of  the  sisters, 
the  brotiier,  the  poet  and  the  other  guests  mixed  in  it. 
It  was  a  delightful  family  scene  for  our  poet,  then  lately 
introduced  to  tiie  world  :  his  mind  was  roused  to  a  poetic 
•nthusinsm,  and  the  stanzas  were  left  in  the  room  where 
he  slept."] 


0  THOU  dread  Power,  who  reign'st  above ! 

I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear, 
When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love 

I  make  my  prayer  sincere. 


The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke, 
Long,  long,  be  pleased  to  spare  ; 

To  bless  his  filial  little  flock 
And  show  what  good  men  are. 


She  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 

0,  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys, 
But  spare  a  mother's  tears ! 


Their  hope — their  stay — their  darling  youth, 

In  manhood's  dawning  blush — 
Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 

Up  to  a  parent's  wish ! 


The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band. 
With  earnest  tears  1  pray, 

Thou  know'st  the  snares  on  ev'ry  hand- 
Guide  Thou  their  steps  alway. 


When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast. 
O'er  life's  rough  ocean  driven. 

May  they  rejoice,  no  wanderer  lost, 
A  family  in  Heaven ! 


LX. 
TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ., 

MAUCHLINE. 
(RECOMMENDING   A  BOY.) 

[Verse  seems  to  have  been  the  natural  language  of 
Burns.  The  Mister  Tootie  whose  skill  he  records,  lived 
in  Mauchline,  and  dealt  in  cows:  he  was  an  artful  anc 
contriving  person,  great  in  bargaining  and  intimate  with 
all  the  professional  tricks  by  which  old  cows  are  mad( 
to  look  young,  and  six-pint  hawkies  pass  for  those  of 
twelve.] 

Mossgiel,  May  3,  1786. 
I. 
I  HOLD  it.  Sir,  my  bounden  duty. 
To  warn  you  how  that  Master  Tootie, 

Alias,  Laird  M'Gaun, 
Was  here  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
'Bout  whom  ye  spak  the  tither  day, 

An'  wad  ha'e  done't  aff  han' ; 
But  lest  he  learn  the  callan  tricks, 

As,  faith,  I  muckle  doubt  him. 
Like  scrapiu'  out  auld  Crummie's  nicks. 
An'  tellin'  lies  about  them ; 
As  lieve  then,  I'd  have  then, 

Your  clerkship  he  should  sair. 
If  sae  be,  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  otherwhere. 

II. 

Altho'  I  say't,  he's  gleg  enough. 

An'  bout  a  house  that's  rude  an'  rough 

The  boy  might  learn  to  swear; 
But  then  wi'  you,  he'll  be  sae  taught. 
An'  get  sic  fair  example  straught, 

I  havena  ony  fear. 

Ye'll  catechize  him  every  quirk, 

An'  shore  him  weel  wi'  Hell ; 

An'  gar  him  follow  to  the  kirk — 

— Ay  when  ye  gang  yoursel'. 

If  ye  then,  maun  be  then 

Frae  hame  this  comin'  Friday ; 
Then  please  Sir,  to  lea'e  Sir, 
The  orders  wi'  your  lady. 

III. 
My  word  of  honour  I  hae  gien. 
In  Paisley  John's,  that  night  at  e'n, 

To  meet  the  Warld's  worm  ; 
To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree, 
An'  name  the  airles'  an'  the  fee, 

In  legal  mode  an'  form : 
I  ken  he  weel  a  snick  can  draw. 


1  The  airles — earnest  money. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


129 


When  simple  bodies  let  him ; 
An'  if  a  Devil  be  at  a', 

In  faith  he's  sure  to  get  him. 
To  phrase  you,  an'  praise  you, 
Ye  ken  your  Laureat  scorns : 
The  pray'r  still,  you  share  still, 
Of  grateful  Min  steel  Buens. 


LXI. 
TO  MR.   M'ADAM, 

OP   CRAIGEN-GILLAN. 

[It  seems  thnt  Burns,  delighted  with  the  praise  which 
Ihe  Laird  of  Craigen-Gillan  bestowed  on  his  verses, — 
probably  the  Jolly  Beggars,  then  in  the  hands  of  Wood- 
burn,  liis  steward, — poured  out  this  little  unpremeditated 
jatural  acknowledgment.] 

SiE,  o'er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card, 

I  trow  it  made  me  proud  ; 
See  wha  tak's  notice  o'  the  bard 

I  lap  and  cry'd  fu'  loud. 

Now  deil-ma-care  about  their  jaw, 

The  senseless,  gawky  million : 
I'll  cock  my  nose  aboon  them  a' — 

I'm  roos'd  by  Craigen-Gillan  I 

'Twas  noble,  Sir ;  'twas  like  yoursel'. 

To  grant  your  high  protection : 
A  great  man's  smile,  ye  ken  fu'  well, 

Is  ay  a  blest  infection. 

Tho'  by  his'  banes  who  in  a  tub 

Match'd  Macedonian  Sandy ! 
On  my  ain  legs  thro'  dirt  and  dub» 

I  independent  stand  ay. — 

And  when  those  legs  to  gude,  warm  kail, 

Wi'  welcome  canna  bear  me ; 
A  lee  dyke-side,  a  sybow-tail. 

And  barley-scone  shall  cheer  me. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  the  breath 

0'  many  flow'ry  simmers  I 
And  bless  your  bonnie  lasses  baith, 

I'm  tauld  they're  loosome  kimmers  1 

And  God  bless  young  Dunaskin's  laird. 

The  blossom  of  our  gentry  I 
And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man's  beard, 

A  credit  to  his  country. 

lDiog»ne«. 


Lxn. 

ANSWER  TO  A  POETICAL  EPISTLE 

SENT   TO   THE  AUTHOR  BT  A  TAILOK. 

[The  person  who  in  the  name  of  a  Tailor  lock  th« 
liberty  of  admonishing  Burns  about  his  errors,  is  gene* 
rally  believed  to  have  been  William  Simpson,  the  tcbool- 
master  of  Ochiltree  :  the  verses  seem  about  the  measure 
of  his  capacity,  and  were  attributed  at  the  time  to  his 
hand.  The  natural  poet  took  advantage  of  the  mask  in 
which  the  made  poet  concealed  himself,  and  rained 
such  a  merciless  storm  upon  him,  as  would  have  extin- 
guished  half  the  Tailors  in  Ayrshire,  and  made  the 
amazed  dominie 

"  Strangely  fidge  and  fyke." 

It  was  first  printed  in  1801,  by  Stewart.] 

What  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousie  b — h, 
To  thresh  my  back  at  sic  a  pitch  ? 
Losh,  man !  hae  mercy  wi'  your  natch. 

Your  bodkin's  bauld, 
I  didna  suffer  ha'f  sae  much 

Frae  Daddie  Auld. 

What  tho'  at  times  when  I  grow  crouse, 
I  gie  their  wames  a  random  pouse. 
Is  that  enough  for  you  to  souse 

Your  servant  sae  ? 
Gae  mind  your  seam,  ye  prick-the-louse, 

An'  jag-the-flae. 

King  David  o'  poetic  brief. 

Wrought  'mang  the  lasses  sic  mischief, 

As  fill'd  his  after  life  wi'  grief, 

An'  bluidy  rants. 
An'  yet  he's  rank'd  amang  the  chief 

0'  lang-syne  saunts. 

And  maybe,  Tam,  for  a'  my  cants, 
My  wicked  rhymes,  an*  druken  rants, 
I'll  gie  auld  cloven  Clootie's  haunts 

An  unco'  slip  yet. 
An'  enugly  sit  among  the  saunts 

At  Davie's  hip  get. 

But  fegs,  the  Session  says  I  matm 

Gae  fa'  upo'  anither  plan, 

^han  garrin  lasses  cowp  the  cran 

Clean  heels  owre  body. 
And  sairly  thole  their  mither's  ban 

Afore  the  howdy. 

This  leads  me  on,  to  tell  for  sport. 
How  I  did  wi'  the  Session  sort, 


130 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Auld  Clinkum  at  the  inner  port 

Cried  three  times — "Robin! 
Come  hither,  lad,  an'  answer  for't, 

Ye're  blamed  for  jobbin'." 

Wi'  pinch  I  pat  a  Sunday's  face  on, 
An'  snoov'd  away  before  the  Session ; 
i  made  an  open  fair  coni'ession — 

I  scorn'd  to  lee ; 
An'  syne  Mess  John,  beyond  expression. 

Fell  foul  o'  me. 


LXIII. 
TO  J.  RANKIN E. 

[With  the  Laird  of  Adamhili's  personal  character  the 
reader  is  already  acquainted:  the  lady  about  whose 
frailties  the  rumour  alluded  to  was  about  to  rise,  has  not 
been  named,  and  it  would  neither  be  delicate  nor  polite 
to  guess.] 

I  AM  a  keeper  of  the  law 

In  some  sma'  points,  altho'  not  a' ; 

Some  people  tell  me  gin  I  fa' 

Ae  way  or  ither. 
The  breaking  of  ae  point,  though  sma', 

Breaks  a'  thegither. 

I  hae  been  in  for't  ance  or  twice. 
And  winna  say  o'er  far  for  thrice. 
Yet  never  met  with  that  surprise 

That  broke  my  rest, 
But  now  a  rumour's  like  to  rise, 

A  whaup's  i'  the  nest. 


LXIV. 
LINES 

WEITTEN  ON  A  BANK-NOTE. 

[The  bank-note  on  whidi  these  characteristic  lines 
were  endorsed,  came  into  the  hands  of  the  late  James 
Gracie,  backer  in  Dumfries:  he  knew  the  handwriting 
of  Burns,  and  kept  it  as  a  curiosity.  The  concluding 
lines  point  to  the  year  1786,  as  the  date  of  the  compo- 
sition.] 

Wae  worth  thy  power,  thou  cursed  leaf, 
Fell  source  o'  a'  my  woe  an'  grief; 


For  lack  o'  thee  I've  lost  my  lass, 
For  lack  o'  thee  I  scrimp  my  glass. 
I  see  the  children  of  affliction 
Unaided,  through  thy  cursed  restriction 
I've  seen  the  oppressor's  cruel  smile 
Amid  his  hapless  victim's  spoil: 
And  for  thy  potence  vainly  wished, 
To  crush  the  villain  in  the  dust. 
For  lack  o'  thee,  I  leave  this  much-lov'd  6hor») 
Never,  perhaps,  to  greet  old  Scotland  more. 

R  E 


LXV, 


A  DREAM. 


Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  the  statute  blame*  with 


But  surely  dreams  were  ne'er  indicted  treason.* 

On  reading,  in  the  public  papers,  the  "  Laureate'ti 
Ode,"  with  the  other  parade  of  June  4,  1786,  the  author 
was  no  sooner  dropt  asleep,  than  he  imagined  himself 
transported  to  the  birth-day  levee  ;  and  in  his  dreaming 
fancy  made  the  following  "Address." 

[The  prudent  friends  of  the  poet  remonstrated  with  him 
about  this  Poem,  w^hich  tliey  appeared  to  think  would 
injure  his  fortunes  and  stop  tlie  royal  bounty  to  which  he 
was  thought  entitled.  Mrs.  Dunlop,  and  Mrs.  Stewart, 
of  Stair,  solicited  him  in  vain  to  omit  it  in  the  Edinburgh 
edition  of  his  poems.  I  know  of  no  poem  for  which  a 
claim  of  being  prophetic  would  be  so  successfully  set 
up :  it  is  full  of  point  as  well  as  of  the  future.  The  allu- 
sions require  no  comment.] 

Guid-mornin'  to  your  Majesty ! 

May  Heaven  augment  your  blisses. 
On  ev'ry  new  birth-day  ye  see, 

A  humble  poet  wishes  1 
My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee. 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is. 
Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

Amang  thae  birth-day  dresses 

Sae  fine  this  day 


I  see  ye're  complimented  thrang, 

By  many  a  lord  an'  lady ; 
"  God  save  the  king !"  's  a  cuckoo  sang 

That's  unco  easy  said  ay ; 
The  poets,  too,  a  venal  gang, 

Wi'  rhymes  weel-turn'd  and  ready, 
Wad  gar  you  trow  ye  ne'er  do  wrang, 

But  ay  unerring  steady. 

On  sic  a  day 


OF    IIOBEKT    BUKNS.                                         13^ 

For  me,  before  a  monarch's  face, 

But  since  I'm  here,  I'll  no  neglect. 

Ev'n  there  I  wiiina  flatter ; 

In  loyal,  true  afi"ection, 

For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place, 

To  pay  your  Queen,  with  due  respect. 

Am  I  your  humble  debtor : 

My  fealty  an'  subjection 

So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace, 

Tiiis  great  birth-day 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter  ; 

There's  monie  waur  been  o'  the  race, 

Hail,  Majesty  Most  Excellent! 

And  aiblins  ane  been  better 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye. 

Than  you  this  day. 

Will  ye  accept  a  compliment 

A  simple  poet  gi'es  ye  ? 

'Tis  very  true,  my  sov'reign  king, 

Thae  bonnie  bairntime,  Heav'n  has  lent. 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted : 

Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 

But  facts  are  chiels  that  winna  ding. 

In  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent. 

An'  downa  be  disputed : 

For  ever  to  release  ye 

Your  royal  nest  beneath  your  wing, 

Frae  care  that  day. 

Is  e'en  right  reft  an'  clouted, 

And  now  the  third  part  of  the  string, 

For  you,  young  potentate  o'  Wales, 

An'  less,  will  -gang  about  it 

I  tell  your  Highness  fairly. 

Than  did  ae  day. 

Down  pleasure's  stream,  wi'  swelling  sails 

I'm  tauld  ye're  driving  rarely ; 

Far  be't  frae  me  that  I  aspire 

But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails. 

To  blame  your  legislation. 

An'  curse  your  folly  sairly, 

Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire. 

That  e'er  ye  brak  Diana's  pales. 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation. 

Or  rattl'd  dice  wi'  Charlie, 

But  faith !  I  muckle  doubt,  my  sire. 

By  night  or  day. 

Ye've  trusted  ministration 

To  chaps,  wha,  in  a  barn  or  byre, 

Yet  aft  a  ragged  cowte's  been  known 

Wad  better  fill'd  their  station 

To  mak  a  noble  aiver; 

Than  courts  yon  day. 

So,  ye  may  doucely  fill  a  throne, 

For  a*  their  clish-ma-claver : 

And  now  ye've  gien  auld  Britain  peace, 

There,  him  at  Agincourt  wha  shone 

Her  broken  phins  to  plaister ; 

Few  better  were  or  braver ; 

Your  sair  tayp.tion  does  her  fleece. 

And  yet,  wi'  funny,  queer  Sir  John, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a  tester; 

He  was  an  unco  shaver 

For  me,  thank  God,  my  life's  a  lease, 

For  monie  a  day. 

Nae  bargain  wearing  faster, 

Or,  faith  I  I  fear,  that,  wi'  the  geese. 

For  you,  right  rev'rend  Osnaburg, 

I  shortly  boost  to  pasture 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter. 

r  the  craft  some  day. 

Altho'  a  ribbon  at  your  lug, 

Wad  been  a  dress  completer  : 

I'll  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 

When  taxes  he  enlarges. 

That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 

(An'  Will's  a  true  guid  fallow's  get. 

Then,  swith  !  an'  get  a  wife  to  hug, 

A  name  not  envy  epftirges,) 

Or,  trouth  1  ye'll  stain  the  mitre 

That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt. 

Some  luckless  day. 

An'  lessen  a'  your  charges  ; 

But,  G-d-sake !  let  nae  saving-fit 

Young,  royal  Tarry  Breeks,  I  learn, 

Abridge  your  bonnie  barges 

Ye've  lately  come  athwart  her ; 

An'  boats  this  day. 

A  glorious  galley, '  stem  an'  stern. 

Weel  rigg'd  for  Venus'  barter ; 

Adieu,  my  Liego !  may  freedom  geek 

But  first  hang  out,  that  she'll  discern 

Beneath  your  high  protection ; 
An'  may  ye  rax  corruption's  neck. 

Your  hymeneal  charter. 

1  Alluding  to  the  newspaper  account  of  a  certain  roja 

And  gie  her  for  dissection  ! 

■ailor'B  amour 

132 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple  aim, 
Au',  large  upon  her  quarter, 

Come  full  that  day. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonnie  blossoms  a', 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty, 
Heav'n  mak  you  guid  as  weel  as  braw. 

An'  gie  you  lads  a-plenty ; 
But  sneer  na  British  Boys  awa', 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  ay ; 
An'  German  gentles  are  but  sma'. 

They're  better  just  than  want  ay 
On  onie  day. 

God  bless  you  a'  !  consider  now, 

Ye're  unco  muckle  dautet ; 
But  ere  the  course  o'  life  be  thro', 

It  may  be  bitter  sautet ; 
An'  I  hae  seen  their  coggie  fou. 

That  yet  hae  tarrow't  at  it ; 
But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow, 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautet 

Fu'  clean  that  day. 


LXVI. 
A  BARD'S  EPITAPH. 

[This  beautiful  and  affecting  poem  was  printed  in  the 
Kilmarnock  edition :  Wordsworth  writes  with  his  usual 
taste  and  feeling  about  it :  "  Whom  did  the  poet  intend 
should  be  thought  of,  as  occupying  that  grave,  over 
which,  after  modestly  setting  forth  the  moral  discernment 
and  warm  affections  of  the '  poor  inhabitant'  it  is  supposed 
to  be  inscribed  that 

'  Thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stained  his  name  !' 
Who  but  himself— himself  anticipating  the  Dut  too  pro- 
bable termination  of  his  own  course  ?  Here  is  a  sincere 
and  solemn  avowal — a  confession  at  once  devout,  poeti- 
cal, and  human — a  history  in  the  shape  of  a  prophecy ! 
What  more  was  required  of  the  biographer,  than  to  have 
pjt  liis  seal  to  the  writing,  testifying  that  the  foreboding 
«ad  been  realized  and  that  the  record  was  authentic?"] 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  near ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool. 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song, 

"Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 


That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

0,  J  ass  not  by  I 

But  with  a  f rater-feeling  strong. 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear, 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs,  himself,  life's  mad  career. 

Wild  as  the  wave ; 
Here  pause — and,  through  the  starting  tear, 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow. 

And  softer  flame, 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low. 

And  stain'd  his  name  I 

Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control, 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


Lxvn. 

THE    TWA  DOGS. 

A  TALE. 


[Cromek,  an  anxious  and  curious  inquirer,  informed 
me,  that  the  Twa  Dogs  was  in  a  half-finished  state,  when 
the  poet  consulted  John  Wilson,  the  printer,  about  the 
Kilmarnock  edition.  On  looking  over  the  manuscripts, 
the  printer,  with  a  sagacity  common  to  his  profession, 
said,  "The  Address  to  the  Deil"  and  "  The  Holy  Fair" 
were  grand  things,  but  it  would  be  as  well  to  have  a 
calmer  and  sedater  strain,  to  put  at  the  front  of  the 
volume.  Burns  was  struck  with  the  remark,  and  on  hia 
way  home  to  Mossgiel,  completed  the  Poem,  and  took  it 
next  day  to  Kilmarnock,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of 
•'  Wee  Johnnie-."  On  the  17th  of  February  Burns  says 
to  John  Richmond,  of  Mauchline,  "  I  have  completed 
ray  Poem  of  the  Twa  Dogs,  but  have  not  shown  it  to  the 
world."  It  is  difficult  to  fix  the  dates  with  anything  like 
accuracy,  to  compositions  which  are  not  struck  off  at 
one  heat  of  the  fancy.  '<  Luath  was  me  of  the  poet^a 
dogs,  which  some  person  had  wantonly  killed,"  says 
Gilbert  Burns;  "  but  Ccesar  was  merely  the  creature  of 
the  imagination."  The  Ettrick  Shepherd,  a  judge  of 
collies,  says  that  Luath  is  true  to  the  life,  and  that  many 
a  hundred  times  he  has  seen  the  dogs  bark  for  ver;-  joy 
when  the  cottage  children  were  merry.] 

'TwAS  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle 
That  bears  the  name  o'  Auld  King  Coil, 


OF   llOBERT  BURNS. 


13^ 


UpDn  a  bonnie  day  in  June, 

"When  wearing  through  the  afternoon, 

Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 

Forgather'd  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I'll  name,  they  ca'd  him  Caesar, 

Was  keepit  for  his  honour's  pleasure ; 

His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 

Show'd  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  dogs ; 

But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 

Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar 
Show'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar ; 
But  though  he  was  o'  high  degree, 
The  fient  a  pride — nae  pride  had  he ; 
But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin*, 
Ev'n  wi'  a  tinkler-gypsey's  messin'. 
At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  though  e'er  sae  duddie, 
But  he  wad  stan't,  as  glad  to  see  him. 
And  stroan't  on  stanes  and  hillocks  wi'  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 

A  rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 

Wha  for  his  friend  an'  comrade  had  him, 

And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him. 

After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang,^ 

Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knows  how  lang. 

He  was  a  gash  an'  faithful  tyke, 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  baws'nt  face, 
Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 
His  breast  was  white,  his  touzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black ; 
His  gaucie  tail,  wi'  upward  curl. 
Hung  o'er  his  hurdles  wi'  a  swirl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o'  ither, 

An'  unco  pack  an'  thick  thegither; 

Wi*  social  nose  whyles  snuff" 'd  and  snowkit, 

Whyles  mice  and  moudieworts  they  howkit; 

Whyles  scour'd  awa  in  lung  excursion. 

An'  worry'd  ither  in  diversion; 

Until  wi'  daffin  weary  grown, 

Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  down. 

And  there  began  a  lang  digression 

About  the  lords  o'  the  creation. 

C^SAR. 

I've  aften  wonder'd,  honest  Luath, 
What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have ; 


Cuchullin's  dog  in  Ossian's  Fingal. 


An'  when  the  gentry's  life  I  saw. 
What  way  poor  bodies  liv'd  ava. 

Our  laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents. 

His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a'  his  stents ; 

He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel' ; 

His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 

He  ca's  his  coach,  he  ca's  his  horse ; 

He  draws  a  bonnie  silken  purse 

As  lang's  my  tail,  whare,  through  the  steeki^ 

The  yellow  letter'd  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e'en  its  nought  but  toiling. 
At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling; 
An'  though  the  gentry  first  are  stechin, 
Yet  even  the  ha'  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  and  sic  like  trashtrie, 
That's  little  short  o'  downright  wastrie. 
Our  whipper-in,  wee,  blastit  wonner. 
Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner. 
Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  honour  has  in  a'  the  Ian' ; 
An'  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 
I  own  it's  past  my  comprehension 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  Ceesar,  whyles  they're  fash't  eneugh 

A  cotter  howkin  in  a  sheugh, 

Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin'  a  dyke. 

Baring  a  quarry,  and  sic  like ; 

Himself,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 

A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans, 

An'  nought  but  his  han'  darg,  to  keep 

Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  an'  rape. 

An'  when  they  meet  wi'  sair  disasters. 
Like  loss  o'  health,  or  want  o'  masters. 
Ye  maist  wad  think  a  wee  touch  langer 
An'  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  and  hunger; 
But,  how  it  comes,  I  never  kenn'd  yet. 
They're  maistly  wonderfu'  contented : 
An'  buirdly  chiels,  an'  clever  hizzies, 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 


But  then  to  see  how  ye're  negleckit, 
How  huff"'d,  and  cuff'd,  and  disrespeckit « 
L — d,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  an'  sic  cattle ; 
They  gang  as  saucy  ^y  poor  folk. 
As  I  wad  by  a  stinking  brock. 

I've  notic'd,  on  our  Laird's  court-day, 
An'  mony  a  time  my  heart's  been  wae. 


r34                                  THE   POETICAL  WORKS 

Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o'  cash, 

Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch, 

IIow  they  maun  thole  a  factor's  snash : 

Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench, 

He'll  stamp  an'  threaten,  curse  an'  swear, 

Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel'  the  faster 

He'll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear ; 

In  favour  wi'  some  gentle  master, 

While  they  maun  stan',  wi'  aspect  humble, 

Wha  aiblins,  thrang  a  parliamentin'. 

An'  hear  it  a',  an'  fear  an'  tremble  ! 

For  Britain's  guid  his  saul  indentin' — 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches ; 

But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 

CMSXR. 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it! 

LUATH. 

For  Britain's  guid!  guid  faith,  I  doubt  it! 

They're  no  sae  wretched's  ane  wad  think ; 

Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him, 

Tho'  constantly  on  poortith's  brink  : 

An'  saying,  aye  or  no's  they  bid  him , 

They're  sae  accustom'd  wi'  the  sight. 

At  operas  an'  plays  parading, 

The  view  o't  gies  them  little  fright. 

Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading; 

Then  chance  an'  fortune  are  sae  guided. 

Or  may  be,  in  a  frolic  daft, 

They're  ay  in*less  or  mair  provided  ; 

To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a  waft. 

An'  tho'  fatigu'd  wi'  close  employment. 

To  mak  a  tour,  an'  tak'  a  whirl. 

A  blink  o'  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

To  learn  bon  ton,  an'  see  the  worl'. 

The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 

Their  grushie  weans,  an'  faithfu'  wives ; 

He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails ; 

The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 

Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  rout, 

That  sweetens  a'  their  fire-side ; 

To  thrum  guitars,  an'  fecht  wi'  nowt ; 

An'  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o'  nappy 

Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 

Can  mak'  the  bodies  unco  happy ; 

Wh-re-hunting  amang  groves  o'  myrtles 

They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 

Then  bouses  drumly  German  water, 

To  mind  the  Kirk  and  State  afi'airs : 

To  mak'  himsel'  look  fair  and  fatter. 

They'll  talk  o'  patronage  and  priests ; 

An'  clear  the  consequential  sorrows. 

Wi'  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts ; 

Love-gifts  of  carnival  siguoras. 

Or  tell  what  new  taxation's  comin', 

For  Britain's  guid ! — for  her  destruction 

And  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon'on. 

Wi'  dissipation,  feud,  an'  faction. 

As  bleak-fac'd  Hallowmass  returns. 

LUATH. 

They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns. 
When  rural  life,  o'  ev'ry  station, 

Hech,  man !  dear  sirs !  is  that  the  gate 

Unite  in  common  recreation ; 

They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw  estate ! 

Love  blinks.  Wit  slaps,  an'  social  Mirth 

Are  we  sae  foughten  an'  harass'd 

Forgets  there's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 

For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last ! 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins. 

0,  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  win's; 

An'  please  themsels  wi'  countra  sports, 

The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream, 

It  wad  for  ev'ry  ane  be  better, 

An'  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam  ; 

The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  an'  the  Cotter! 

The  luntin  pipe,  an  sneeshin  mill, 

For  thae  frank,  rantin',  ramblin'  billies, 

Are  handed  round  wi'  right  guid  will ; 

Fient  haet  o'  them's  ill-hearted  fellows ; 

The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin'  crouse, 

Except  for  breakin'  o'  their  timmer. 

The  young  anes  rantin'  thro'  the  house, — 

Or  speakin*  lightly  o'  their  limmer, 

My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 

Or  shootin'  o'  a  hare  or  moor-cock, 

That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 

The  ne'er  a  bit  they're  ill  to  poor  folk. 

Still  it's  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said. 

But  will  ye  tell  me.  Master  Ccesar, 

Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  play'd. 

Sure  great  folk's  life's  a  life  o'  pleasure  ? 

There's  monie  a  creditable  stock 

Nae  cauld  or  hunger  e'er  can  steer  them, 

0'  decent,  honest,  fawsont  folk. 

The  vera  thought  o't  need  na  fear  tbeni. 

OF  BOBERT  BURNS. 


135 


L — d,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I  am, 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em. 

It's  true,  they  needna  starve  or  sweat, 
Thro*  winter's  cauld,  or  simmer's  heat ; 
They've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes. 
An'  fill  auld  age  wi'  grips  an'  granes  : 
But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools, 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them. 
They  mak  enow  themsels  to  vex  them ; 
An'  ay  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them. 
In  like  proportion,  less  will  hurt  them. 

A  country  fellow  at  the  plough. 

His  acres  till'd,  he's  right  eneugh ; 

A  country  girl  at  her  wheel, 

Her  dizzen's  done,  she's  unco  weel : 

But  Gentlemen,  an'  Ladies  warst, 

Wi'  ev'n  down  want  o'  wark  are  curst. 

They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  an'  lazy ; 

Tho'  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy ; 

Their  days  insipid,  dull,  an'  tasteless ; 

Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  an'  restless ; 

An'  even  their  sports,  their  balls  an'  races, 

Their  galloping  thro'  public  places, 

There's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an'  art. 

The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches. 

Then  sowther  a'  in  deep  debauches ; 

Ae  night  they're  mad  wi'  drink  and  wh-ring, 

Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters. 

As  great  and  gracious  a'  as  sisters ; 

But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither, 

They're  a'  run  deils  an'  jads  thegither. 

"Whyles,  o'er  the  wee  bit  cup  an'  platie. 

They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty ; 

Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi'  crabbit  leuks 

i.  ore  owre  the  devil's  pictur'd  beuks ; 

Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard, 

A.n'  cheat  like  onie  unhang'd  blackguard. 

ThBre's  some  exception,  man  an'  woman; 
Bat  this  is  Gentry's  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight. 
An'  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night: 
The  bum-clock  humm'd  wi'  lazy  drone ; 
The  kj-e  stood  rowtin  i'  the  loan; 
When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 
Rejoic'd  they  were  na  men,  but  dogs; 
An'  each  took  afF  his  several  way, 
Resolv'd  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


LXVIII. 

LINES 

ON 

MEETING  WITH  LORD  DAER. 

["The  first  time  I  saw  Robert  Burns,"  says  Dugald 
Stewart,  "was  on  the  23d  of  October,  1786,  when  he 
dined  at  my  house  in  Ayrshire,  together  with  our  com- 
mon friend,  John  Mackenzie,  surgeon  in  Mauchlino,  to 
whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  pleasure  of  his  acquaitit- 
ance.  My  excellent  and  much-lamented  friend,  the  late 
Basil,  Lord  Daer,  happened  to  arrive  at  Catrine  the  same 
day,  and,  by  the  kindness  and  frankness  of  his  manners, 
left  an  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  poet  which  was 
never  effaced.  The  verses  which  the  poet  wrote  on  the 
occasion  are  among  the  most  imperfect  of  his  pieces,  but 
a  few  stanzas  may  perhaps  be  a  matter  of  curiosity,  both 
on  account  of  the  character  to  which  they  relate  and  the 
light  which  they  throw  on  the  situation  and  the  feelings 
of  the  Avriter  before  his  name  was  known  to  the  public." 
Basil,  Lord  Daer,  the  uncle  of  the  present  Earl  of  Sel 
kirk,  was  born  in  the  year  1769,  at  the  family  seat  of  St. 
Mary's  Isle :  he  distinguished  himself  early  at  school, 
and  at  college  excelled  in  literature  and  science  ;  he  had 
a  greater  regard  for  democracy  than  was  then  reckoned 
consistent  with  his  birth  and  rank.  He  was,  when  Buma 
met  him,  in  his  twenty-third  year;  was  very  tall,  some- 
thing careless  in  his  dress,  and  had  the  taste  and  talent 
common  to  his  distinguisl.ed  family.  He  died  in  li'« 
thirty-third  year.] 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 
I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 
A  ne'er-to-be-forgotten  day, 
Sae  far  I  sprachled  up  the  brae, 

I  dinner' d  wi'  a  Lord. 

I've  been  at  druken  writers'  feasts. 
Nay,  been  bitch-fou'  'mang  godly  priests, 

Wi'  rev'rence  be  it  spoken : 
I've  even  join'd  the  honour'd  jorum. 
When  mighty  squireships  of  the  quorum 

Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

But  wi'  a  Lord — stand  out,  my  shin ! 
A  Lord — a  Peer — an  Earl's  son ! — 

Up  higher  yet,  my  bonnet! 
And  sic  a  Lord  ! — lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
Our  Peerage  he  o'erlooks  them  a'. 

As  I  look  o'er  my  sonnet 

But,  oh !  for  Hogarth's  magic  pow'r ! 
To  show  Sir  Bardie's  willyart  glow'r. 

And  how  he  star'd  and  stammer  u, 
When  goavan,  as  if  led  wi'  branks. 
An'  stumpan  on  his  ploughman  shanks. 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer'd. 


136 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


I  sidling  shelter'd  in  a  nook, 
An'  at  his  lordship  steal't  a  look, 

Like  some  portentous  omen ; 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee, 
An'  (what  surpris'd  me)  modesty, 

I  marked  nought  uncommon. 

Twixtch'd  the  symptoms  o'  the  great. 
The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state, 

The  arrogant  assuming ; 
The  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he, 
Nor  sauce,  nor  state,  that  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 

Then  from  his  lordship  I  shall  learn. 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 

One  rank  as  weel's  another ; 
Nae  honest  worthy  man  need  care 
To  meet  with  noble  youthful  Daer, 

For  he  but  meets  a  brother. 


LXIX. 

ADDRESS   TO   EDINBURGH. 

["  I  enclose  you  two  poems,"  said  Burns  to  his  friend 
Chalmers,  "  which  I  have  carded  and  spun  since  I  passed 
Glenbuck.  One  b.ank  in  the  Address  to  Edinburgh, 
'  Fair  B — ,'  is  the  heavenly  Miss  Burnet,  daughter  to 
Lord  Monboddo,  at  whose  house  I  have  had  the  honour 
to  be  more  than  once.  There  has  not  been  anything 
nearly  like  her,  in  all  the  combinations  of  beauty,  grace, 
and  goodness  the  great  Creator  has  formed,  since  Milton's 
Eve,  on  the  first  day  of  her  existence."  Lord  Monboddo 
made  liimself  ridiculous  by  his  speculations  on  human 
nature,  and  acceptable  by  his  kindly  manners  and  sup- 
pers in  the  manner  of  the  ancients,  where  his  viands  were 
spread  under  ambrosial  lights,  and  his  Falernian  was 
wreathed  with  flowers.  At  these  suppers  Burns  some- 
times made  his  appearance.  The  "Address"  was  first 
printed  in  the  Edinburgh  edition:  the  poet's  hopes  were 
then  liigh,  and  his  compliments,  both  to  town  and  people, 
were  elegant  and  happy.] 

I. 

Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow'rs, 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  Legislation's  sov'reign  pow'rs  ! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flow'rs, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd, 
And  singing,  ''one,  the  ling' ring  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 


Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide. 

As  busy  Trade  his  labour  plies ; 
There  Architecture's  noble  pride 

Bids  elegance  and  splendour  rise  ; 
Here  Justice,  from  her  native  skies, 

High  wields  her  balance  and  hei  rod; 
There  Learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  Science  in  her  coy  abode. 


Thy  sons,  Edina  !  social,  kind, 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 
Their  views  enlarg'd,  their  liberal  mind, 

Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale  ; 
Attentive  still  to  sorrow's  wail, 

Or  modest  merit's  silent  claim  ; 
And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name  ! 


Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn, 

Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky, 
Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptur'd  thrill  of  joy! 
Fair  Burnet  strikes  th'  adoring  eye, 

Heav'n's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine ; 
I  see  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high, 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine  I 


There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 

Thy  rough,  rude  fortress  gleams  afar  j 
Like  some  bold  vet'ran,  gray  in  arms, 

And  mark'd  with  many  a  seamy  scar : 
The  pond'rous  wall  and  massy  bar, 

Grim-rising  o'er  the  rugged  rock. 
Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war. 

And  oft  repell'd  th'  invader's  shock. 


With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  tearsi 

I  view  that  noble,  stately  dome. 
Where  Scotia's  kings  of  other  years, 

Fam'd  heroes  !  had  their  royal  home; 
Alas,  how  chang'd  the  times  to  come ! 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ! 
Their  hapless  race  wild-wand'ring  roam, 

Tho'  rigid  law  cries  out,  'twas  just ' 


Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps. 
Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore, 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS.                                        I37    1 

Thro'  hostile  ranks  and  ruin'd  gaps 

May  still  your  life  from  day  to  day 

Old  Sc  tia's  bloody  liou  bore: 

Nae  "  lente  largo"  in  the  play,    . 

Ev'u  I  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

But  "  allegretto  forte"  gay 

Ilaply,  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 

Harmonious  flow : 

And  fac'd  grim  danger's  loudest  roar, 

A  sweeping,  kindling,  haul d  stravhspey— 

Bold-following  where  your  fathers  led  I 

Encore!  Bravo! 

VIII. 

A  blessing  on  the  cheery  gang 

Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

Wha  dearly  like  a  jig  or  sang, 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow'rs, 

An'  never  think  o'  right  an'  wrang 

Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

By  square  an'  nile, 

Sat  Legislation's  sov'reign  pow'rs ! 

But  as  the  clegs  o'  feeling  stang 

Frommarkingwildly-scatter'd  flow'rs, 

Are  wise  or  fool. 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd, 

And  singing,  lone,  the  ling'ring  hours, 

,     My  hand-waled  curse  keep  hard  in  chase 

I  shelter  in  thy  honoilr'd  shade. 

The  harpy,  hoodock,  purse-proud  race. 

Wha  count  on  poortith  as  disgrace — 

Their  tuneless  hearts ! 
May  fireside  discords  jar  a  base 

LXX. 

To  a'  their  parts  I 

EPISTLE   TO  MAJOR  LOGAN. 

But  come,  your  hand,  my  careless  brither, 

r  th'  ither  warl',  if  there's  anither, 

[Major  Logan,  of  Camlarg,  lived,  when  this  hasty 

An'  that  there  is  I've  little  swither 

Poem  was  written,  with  his  mother  and  sister  at  Park- 

About  the  matter ; 

house,  near  Ayr.    He  was  a  good  musician,  a  joyous 
companion,  and  something  of  a  wit.    The  Epistle  was 

We  cheek  for  chow  shall  jog  thegither. 

printed,  for  the  first  time,  in  my  edition  of  Burns,  in  1834, 

I'se  ne'er  bid  better. 

»nd  since  then  no  other  edition  has  wanted  it.] 

Hail,  thairm-inspirin',  rattlin'  Willie ! 
Though  fortune's  road  be  rough  an'  hilly 
To  every  fiddling,  rhyming  billie. 

We  never  heed. 
But  tak'  it  like  the  unback'd  filly, 

We've  faults  and  failings — granted  clearly, 
We're  frail  backsliding  mortals  merely, 
Eve's  bonny  squad,  priests  wyte  them  sheerlj 

For  our  grand  fa' ; 
But  still,  but  still,  I  like  them  dearly— 

God  bless  them  a'  I 

Proud  o'  her  speed. 

When  idly  goavan  whyles  we  saunter 

Ochon !  for  poor  Castalian  drinkers. 

Yirr,  fancy  barks,  awa'  we  canter 

When  they  fa'  foul  o'  earthly  j inkers, 

Uphill,  down  brae,  till  some  mishanter. 

The  witching  curs'd  delicious  blinkers 

Some  black  bog-hole. 

Hae  put  me  hyte, 

Arrests  us,  then  the  scathe  an'  banter 

And  gart  me  weet  my  waukrife  winkers, 

We're  forced  to  thole. 

Wi'  girnan  spite. 

Hale  be  your  heart !  Fale  be  your  fiddle ! 

But  by  yon  moon ! — and  that's  high  swearin'- 

Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  and  diddle, 

An'  every  star  within  my  hearin' ! 

To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle 

An'  by  her  een  wha  was  a  dear  ane  I 

0'  this  wild  warl', 

I'll  ne'er  forget  j 

Until  you  on  a  crummock  driddle 

I  hope  to  gie  the  jads  a  clearin' 

A  gray-hair'd  carl. 

In  fair  play  yet. 

Come  wealth,  come  poortith,  late  or  soon, 

My  loss  I  mourn,  but  not  repent  it, 

Heaven  send  your  heart-strings  ay  in  tune, 

I'll  seek  my  pursie  whare  I  tint  it. 

And  screw  your  temper  pins  aboon 

Ance  to  the  Indies  I  were  wonted. 

A  fifth  or  mair, 

Some  cantraip  hour. 

The  melancholious,  lazy  croon 

By  some  sweet  elf  I'll  yet  bo  dinted, 

0'  cankrie  care. 

Then,  vive   f  amour  I 

138 


THE  POEXICAL  WORKS 


Faites  mes  baiscmains  respectueuse. 

To  sentimental  sister  Susie, 

An'  honest  Lucky ;  no  to  roose  you, 

Ye  may  be  proud, 
That  sic  a  couple  fate  allows  ye 

To  grace  your  blood. 

Nae  mair  at  present  can  I  measure, 

An'  trowth  my  rhymin'  ware's  nae  treasure; 

But  when  in  Ayr,  some  hulf-hour's  leisure, 

Be't  light,  be't  dark, 
Sir  Bard  will  do  himself  the  pleasure 

To  call  at  Park. 

BOBEET    BCKNS. 

Mossgiel,  SOtk  October,  1786. 


LXXI. 

THE  BKIGS   OF  AYR, 

A   POEM, 
INSCRIBED   TO   J.   BALLANTYXE,    ESQ.,   AYR. 

[Burns  took  the  liint  of  this  Poem  from  the  Planestanes 
and  Causeway  of  Fergusson,  l)ut  all  that  lends  it  life  and 
feeling  belongs  to  his  own  heart  and  his  native  Ayr*  he 
wrote  it  for  the  second  edition  of  his  Poems,  and  in  com- 
pliment to  the  patrons  of  his  genius  in  the  west.  Ballan- 
tyne,  to  whom  the  Poem  is  inscribed,  was  generous  when 
the  distresses  of  his  farming  speculations  pressed  upon 
him:  others  of  his  friends  figure  in  the  scene:  Mont- 
gomery's courage,  tiie  learning  of  Dugald  Stewart,  and 
condescension  and  kindness  of  Mrs.  General  Stewart, 
of  Stair,  are  gratefully  recorded,] 

The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  ev'ry  bough ; 
The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush. 
Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green  thorn 

bush  ; 
The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  red-breast  shrill, 
Or  deep-ton'd  plovers,  gray,  wild-whistling  o'er 

the  hill ; 
Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant's  lowly  shed, 
To  hardy  independence  bravely  bred. 
By  early  poverty  to  hardship  steel'd. 
And  train' d  to  arms  in  stern  misfortune's  field — 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes. 
The  servile,  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 
Or  labour  hard  the  panegyric  close, 
With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  prose  ? 

»  A  noted  tavern  at  the  auld  Brig  end. 


No !  though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely  sings, 
And  throws  his  hand  uncouthly  o'er  the  strings, 
He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  Bard, 
Fame,  honest  fame,  his  great,  his  dear  reward ! 
Still,  if  some  patron's  gen'rous  care  he  trace, 
Skill'd  in  the  secret  to  bestow  with  grace ; 
When  Ballantyne  befriends  his  humble  name, 
And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  fame, 
With  heartfelt  throes  his  grateful  bosom  swells, 
The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 


'Twas  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter  hap, 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won  crap ; 
Potato-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
Of  coming  Winter's  biting,  frosty  breath ; 
The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  their  summer  toils, 
Unnumber'd  buds,  an'  flow'rs'  delicious  spoils, 
Seal'd  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen 

piles, 
Are  doom'd  by  man,  that  tyrant  o'er  the  weak. 
The  death  o'  devils  smoor'd  wi'  brimstone  reek* 
The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  ev'ry  side. 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide ; 
The  feather'd  field-mates,  bound  by  Nature's  tie. 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie : 
(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds, 
And  execrates  man's  savage,  ruthless  deeds !) 
Nae  mair  the  flow'r  in  field  or  meadow  springs ; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings, 
Except,  perhaps,  the  robin's  whistling  glee. 
Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bit  half-lang  tree : 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days. 
Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the  noon-tide 

blaze. 
While  thick  the  gossamer  waves  wanton  in  the 

rays. 
'Twas  in  that  season,  when  a  simple  bard. 
Unknown  and  poor,  simplicity's  reward, 
Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr, 
By  whim  inspired,  or  haply  prest  wi'  care, 
He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  rout. 
And  down  by  Simpson's'  wheel'd  the  left  about: 
(Whether  impell'd  by  all-directing  Fate, 
To  witness  what  I  after  shall  narrate ; 
Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high, 
He  wander'd  out  he  knew  not  where  nor  why) 
The  drowsy  Dungeon-clock,^  had  number'd  two, 
And  Wallace  Tow'r^  had  sworn  the  fact  was  true : 
The  tide-swol'n  Firth,  with  sullen  sounding  roar, 
Through  the  still  night  dash'd  hoarse  along  the 

shore. 

2  The  two  steeples. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


139 


All  else  was  hush'd  as  Nature's  closed  e'e : 
The  silent  moon  shone  high  o'er  tow'r  and  tree: 
The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 
Crept,     gently-crusting,     o'er     the    glittering 
stream. — 

When,  lo !  on  either  hand  the  list'ning  Bard, 

The  clanging  sugh  of  -whistling  wings  is  heard ; 

Two  dusky  forms  dart  thro'  the  midnight  air. 

Swift  as  the  gos '  drives  on  the  wheeling  hare ; 

Ane  on  th'  Auld  Brig  his  airy  shape  uprears, 

The  ither  flutters  o'er  the  rising  piers : 

Our  warlock  Rhymer  instantly  descry'd 

The  Sprites  that  owre  the  brigs  of  Ayr  preside. 

(That  Bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke. 

And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp'ritual  folk ; 

Fays,   Spunkies,  Kelpies,  a',  they  can  explain 

them, 
And  ev'n  the  vera  deils  they  brawly  ken  them.) 
Auld  Brig  appear'd  of  ancient  Pictish  race. 
The  very  wrinkles  gothic  in  his  face : 
He  seem'd  as  he  wi'  Time  had  warstl'd  lang. 
Yet,  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 
New  Brig  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new  coat, 
That  he  at  Lon'on,  frae  ane  Adams  got  ; 
In's  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth's  a  bead, 
Wi'  virls  and  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 
The   Goth   was   stalking  round    with   anxious 

search. 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  ev'ry  arch ; — 
It  chanc'd  his  new-come  neebor  took  his  e'e, 
And  e'en  a  vex'd  and  angry  heart  had  he ! 
Wi'  thieveles3  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien, 
He,  down  the  water,  gies  him  this  guid-e'en : — 

AULD  BRIG. 

1  doubt  na',  frien',  ye'll  think  ye're  nae  sheep- 

shank, 
Ance  ye  were  streekit  o'er  frae  bank  to  bank  I 
But  gin  ye  be  a  brig  as  auld  as  me, 
Tho'  faith,  that  day  I  doubt  ye'll  never  see ; 
There'll  be,  if  that  date  come,  I'll  wad  a  boddle, 
Bjme  fewer  whigmeleeries  in  your  noddle. 

NEW  BRIO. 

Auld  Vandal,  ye  but  show  your  little  mense, 
Just  much  about  it  wi'  your  scanty  sense ; 
Will  your  poor,  narrow  foot-path  of  a  street. 
Where  twa  wheel-barrows  tremble  when  they 
meet — 

>  The  go8-hawk  or  falcon. 

2  A  note:l  lord,  just  above  tlie  Auld  Brig, 

3  The  !>:ink8  of  Garpal  Water  is  one  of  the  tew  places 
io  the  West  of  Scotlaad,  where  thi>8e  fjincy-scariug  be- 


Your  ruin'd  formless  bulk  o'  stane  an'  lime, 
Compare  wi'  bonnie  Brigs  o'  modern  time  ? 
There's  men  o'   taste  wou'd  tak  the   Ducat- 
stream,^ 
Tho'  they  should  cast  the  vera  sark  and  swim, 
Ere  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi'  the 

view 
Of  sic  an  ugly,  Gothic  hulk  as  you. 

AULD   BEIG. 

Conceited     gowk!      puff'd    up    wi'    windy 

pride ! — 
This  mony  a  year  I've  stood  the  flood  an'  tide ; 
And  tho'  wi'  crazy  eild  I'm  sair  forfairn, 
I'll  be  a  Brig,  when  ye're  a  shapeless  cairn  ! 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 
But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  ye  better. 
When  heavy,  dark,  continued  a'-day  rains, 
Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains; 
When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling 

Coil, 
Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil, 
Or   where   the  Greenock   winds  his   moorland 

course. 
Or  haunted  Garpal'  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Arous'd  by  blust'ring  winds  an'  spotting  thowes, 
In  mony  a  torrent  down  the  snaw-broo  rowes ; 
While  crashing  ice  born  on  the  roaring  speat. 
Sweeps  dams,  an'  mills,  an'  brigs,  a'  to  the  gate; 
And  from  Glenbuck,*  down  to  the  Ratton-key,* 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd  tumbling  sea — 
Then  down  ye'll  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise ! 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring 
A  lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost,       [skies. 
That  Architecture's  noble  art  is  lost ! 

NEW   BEIO. 

Fine  Architecture,  trowth,  I  needs  mnst  say't 

o't! 
The  L — d  be  thankit  that  we've  tint  the  gat* 

o't! 
Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices, 
Hanging  with  threat'ning  jut  like  precipices ; 
O'er-arching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves, 
Supporting  roofs  fantastic,  stony  groves; 
Windows  and  doors,  in  nameless  sculpture  Irest, 
With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest; 
Forms  like  some  bedlam  Statuary's  dream, 
The  craz'd  creations  of  misguided  whim ; 

ings,  known  by  the  name  of  Ghaists,  still  continue  pet 
tiaaciously  to  inhabit. 

■*The  source  of  the  river  Ayr. 

5  A  small  landing-place  above  the  large  key. 


140 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Forms  might  be  worshipp'd  on  the  bended  knee, 
And  still  the  second  dread  command  be  free, 
Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air,  or 

sea. 
Mansions   that  -would   disgrace    the    building 

taste 
Of  any  mason  reptile,  bird  or  beast ; 
Fit  only  for  a  doited  monkish  race, 
Or  frosty  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace ; 
Or  cuifs  of  later  times  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling  true  devotion ; 
Fancies  that  our  guid  Brugh  denies  protection ! 
And  soon  may  they  expire,  unblest  with  resur- 
rection ! 

AULD  BRIG. 

0  ye,  my  de  ar-r  em  ember 'd  ancient  yealings, 
Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded  feel- 
ings ! 
Ye  worthy  Proveses,  an'  mony  a  Bailie, 
Wha  in  the  paths  o'  righteousness  did  toil  ay ; 
Ye  dainty  Deacons  and  ye  douce  Conveeners, 
To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey-cleaners : 
Ye  godly  Councils  wha  hae  blest  this  town; 
Ye  godly  Brethren  o'  the  sacred  gown, 
Wha  meekly  gie  your  hurdles  to  the  smiters ; 
And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye  godly 

writers ; 
A'  ye  douce  folk  I've  borne  aboon  the  broo. 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or  do ! 
How  would  your  spirits  groan  in  deep  vexa- 
tion, 
To  see  each  melancholy  alteration ; 
And,  agonizing,  curse  the  time  and  place 
When  ye  begat  the  base,  degen'rate  race ! 
Nae  langer  rev'rend  men,  their  country's  glory. 
In  plain  braid  Scots  hold  forth  a  plain  braid 

story ! 
Nae  langer  thrifty  citizens  an'  douce. 
Meet  owre  a  pint,  or  in  the  council-house ; 
But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  gentry. 
The  horryment  and  ruin  of  the  country ; 
Men  three  parts  made  by  tailors  and  by  bar- 
bers, 
Wba  waste  your  weel-hain'd  gear  on  d — d  new 
Brigs  and  Harbours  I 

NEW   BRIO. 

Now  hand  you  there!    for  faith  ye've  said 
enough. 
And  muckle  mair  than  ye  can  mak  to  through ; 
As  for  your  Priesthood,  I  shall  say  but  little, 
Corbies  and  Clergy,  are  a  shot  right  kittle : 


But  under  favour  o'  your  langer  beard, 

Abuse  o'  Magistrates  might  weel  be  spar'd : 

To  liken  them  to  your  auld-warld  squad, 

I  must  needs  say,  comparisons  are  odd. 

In  Ayr,  wag-wits  nae  mair  can  have  a  handle 

To  mouth  '  a  citizen,'  a  term  o'  scandal ; 

Nae  mair  the  Council  waddles  down  the  street, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit ; 

Men  wha   grew  wise   priggin'   owre  hops  an' 

raisins, 
Or  gather'd  lib'ral  views  in  bonds  and  seisins, 
If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a  random  tramp, 
Had  shor'd  them  with  a  glimmer  of  his  lamp, 
And  would  to  Common-sense  for  once  betray'c 

them, 
Plain,  dull  Stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to  aid  them 


What  farther  clishmaclaver  might  been  said. 
What  bloody  wars,  if  Spirites  had  blood  to  shed. 
No  man  can  tell ;  but  all  before  their  sight, 
A  fairy  train  appear'd  in  order  bright : 
Adown  the  glitt'ring  stream  they  featly  danc'd; 
Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanc'd: 
They  footed  owre  the  wat'ry  glass  so  neat. 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet : 
While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 
And  soul-ennobling  bards  heroic  ditties  sung. — 
0  had  M'Lauchlan,'  thairm-inspiring  Sage, 
Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage. 
When  thro'  his  dear  strathspeys  they  bore  with 

highland  rage ; 
Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia's  melting  airs, 
The  lover's  raptur'd  joys  or  bleeding  cares; 
How  would  his  highland  lug  been  nobler  fir'd, 
And  ev'n  his  matchless  hand  with  finer  touch 

inspir'd  ! 
No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument  appear'd. 
But  all  the  soul  of  Music's  self  was  heard, 
Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part. 
While   simple   melody  pour'd   moving   on   the 

heart. 

The  Genius  of  the  stream  in  front  appears, 
A  venerable  Chief  advanc'd  in  years  ; 
His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown'd. 
His  manly  leg  with  garter  tangle  bound. 
Next  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring, 
Sweet  Female  Beauty  hand  in  hand  with  Spring, 
Then,  crown'd  with  flow'ry  hay,  came  Rural  Joy, 
And  Summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye : 

1 A  well  known  performer  of  Scottish  mueic  on  th« 
violin. 


OF  EGBERT  BURNS. 


141 


A.ll-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn, 
Led   yellow   Autumn,   wreath'd    with   nodding 

corn; 
Then  Winter's  time-bleach'd   locks   did   hoary 

show, 
By  Hospitality  with  cloudless  brow. 
Next  follow'd  Courage,  with  his  martial  stride, 
From  where  the  Feal  wild  woody  coverts  hide  ; 
Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air, 
A  female  form,  came  from  the  tow'rs  of  Stair: 
Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-lov'd  abode  : 
Last,  white-rob'd  Peace,  crown'd  with  a  hazel 

wreath. 
To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  death  ; 
At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their  kind- 
ling wrath. 


Lxxn. 

ON 

THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT  DUNDAS,  ESQ., 

OF  ARNISTON, 
LATE  LOBD  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  COURT  OF  SESSION. 

[At  the  request  of  Advocate  Hay,  Burns  composed  this 
Poem,  in  'the  hope  that  it  might  interest  the  powerful 
family  of  Dundas  in  his  fortunes.  I  found  it  inserted  in 
the  handwriting  of  the  poet,  in  an  interleaved  copy  of 
his  Poems,  which  he  presented  to  Dr.  Geddes,  accompa. 
nied  by  the  following  surly  note  : — '•  The  foregoing  Poem 
has  some  tolerable  lines  in  it,  but  the  incurable  wound 
of  my  pride  will  not  suffer  me  to  correct,  or  even  peruse 
it.  I  sent  a  copy  of  it  with  my  best  prose  letter  to  the 
son  of  the  great  man,  tlie  theme  of  the  piece,  by  the 
hands  of  one  of  the  noblest  men  in  God's  world,  Alexan- 
der Wood,  surgeon :  when,  behold  !  his  solicitorsbip 
took  no  more  notice  of  my  Poem,  or  of  me,  than  I  had 
been  a  strolling  fiddler  who  had  made  free  with  hislady'a 
name,  for  a  silly  new  reel.  Did  the  fellow  imagine  that 
I  looked  for  any  dirty  gratuity?"  This  Robert  Dundas 
was  the  eider  brother  of  that  Lord  Melville  to  whos* 
hands,  soon  after  these  lines  were  written,  all  the  govern- 
ment patronage  in  Scotland  was  confided,  and  who,  when 
the  name  of  Burns  was  mentioned,  pushed  the  wine  to 
Pitt,  and  suid  nothing.  The  poem  was  first  printed  by 
me,  in  18^4.] 

Lone  on  the  bleaky  hills  the  straying  flocks 
Shun  the  fierce  storms   among    the  sheltering 

rocks ; 
Down  from  the  rivulets,  red  with  dashing  rains, 
The  gathering  floods  burst  o'er  the  distant  plains ; 


Beneath  the  blasts  the  leafless  forests  groan ; 
The  hollow  caves  return  a  sullen  moan. 

Ye  hills,  ye  plains,  ye  forests  and  ye  caves, 
Ye  howling  winds,  and  wintry  swelling  waves  I 
Unheard,  unseen,  by  human  ear  or  eye, 
Sad  to  your  sympathetic  scenes  I  fly ; 
Where  to  the  whistling  blast  and  waters'  roar 
Pale  Scotia's  recent  wound  I  may  deplore. 

0  heavy  loss,  thy  country  ill  could  bear ! 
A  loss  these  evil  days  can  ne'er  repair! 
Justice,  the  high  vicegerent  of  her  God, 
Her  doubtful  balance  ey'd,  and  sway'd  her  rod 
Hearing  the  tidings  of  the  fatal  blow 
She  sunk,  abandon'd  to  the  wildest  woe. 

Wrongs,  injuries,  from  many  a  darksome  den, 
Now  gay  in  hope  explore  the  paths  of  men : 
See  from  this  cavern  grim  Oppression  rise, 
And  throw  on  poverty  his  cruel  eyes ; 
Keen  on  the  helpless  vi<;tim  see  him  fly, 
And  stifle,  dark,  the  feebly-bursting  cry : 

Mark  ruffian  Violence,  distain'd  with  crimes, 
Rousing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times; 
View  unsuspecting  Innocence  a  prey, 
As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way: 
While  subtile  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 
The  life-blood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and  Wrong: 
Hark,  injur'd  Want  recounts  th'  unlisten'd  tale, 
And  much-wrong'd  Mis'ry  pours  th'  unpitied 
wail! 

Ye  dark  waste  hills,  and  brown  tinsightly  plains, 
To  you  I  sing  my  grief- inspired  strains: 
Ye  tempests,  rage !  ye  turbid  torrents,  roll  I 
Ye  suit  the  joyless  tenor  of  my  soul. 
Life's  social  haunts  and  pleasures  I  resign. 
Be  nameless  wilds  and  lonely  wanderings  mine, 
To  mourn  the  woes  my  country  must  endure, 
That  wound  degenerate  ages  cannot  cure. 


Lxxin. 

on  readinq  in  a  nswspapek 

THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M'LEOD,  ESa 

BROTHER   TO   A.  TOUNO  LA.DT,  A  PARTICULAR  TRISNA 
OF   THE  author's. 

[John  M'Leod  was  of  the  ancient  family  of  Raza,  and 
brother  to  that  Isabella  M'Leod,  for  whom  Bums,  ia 
bis  correspondence,  expressed  great  regard.    The  littla 


142                                   THE    POETICAL   WORKS 

Poem,  when  first  printed,  consisted  of  six  verses :  I  found 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 

a  seventh  in  the  M'Murdo  Manuscripts,  the  fifth  in  tiiis 

Their  annual  round  have  driv'n, 

edition,   niong   witli   an  intimation   in  prose,   that  the 

M'liCod  fuuily  liad  endured  many  unmerited  misfortunes. 

And  you,  tho'  scarce  in  maiden  prime. 

I  obyeive  Uiat  Sir  Harris  Nicolas  has  rejected  tiiis  new 

Are  so  much  nearer  Heav'n. 

verse,  l)ecause,  he  says,  it  repeats  the  same  sentiment  as 

the  (/ne  which  precedes  it.    1  tliink  diflerently,  and  have 
retained  it.] 

No  gifts  have  I  from  Indian  coasts 

The  infant  year  to  hail : 

Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page, 

I  send  you  more  than  India  boasts 

And  rueful  thy  alarms  : 

In  Edwin's  simple  tale, 

Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 

From  Isabella's  arms. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 

Sweetly  deck'd  with  pearly  dew 

Is  charg'd,  perhaps,  too  true ; 

The  morning  rose  may  blow ; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 

But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 

An  Edwin  still  to  you ! 

May  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fair  on  Isabella's  morn 

The  sun  propitious  smil'd ; 

But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clouds 

Succeeding  hopes  beguil'd. 

LXXV. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  chords 

THE   AMERICAN  WAR. 

That  nature  finest  strung  : 

A   FRAGMENT. 

So  Isabella's  heart  was  form'd, 

[Dr.  Blair  said  that  the  politics  of  Burns  smelt  of  thi 

And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 

smithy,  which,  interpreted,  means,  that  they  were  uc^ 

statesman-like,  and  worthy  of  a  country  ale-house,  anc. 

Were  it  in  the  poet's  power. 

an  audience  of  peasants.     Tiie  Poem  gives  us  a  striking 

Strong  as  he  shares  the  grief 

picture  of  the  humorous  and  familiar  way  in  which  the 
hinds  and  husbandmenof  Scotland  handle  national  topics; 

That  pierces  Isabella's  heart, 

tlie  smithy  is  a  favourite  resort,  during  the  winter  even- 

To give  that  heart  relief ! 

ings,  of  rustic  politicians;  and  national  affairs  and  parish 

scandal  are  alike  discussed.     Burns  was  in  those  days^ 

Dread  Omnipotence,  alone, 

and  some  time  after,  a  vehement  Tory:  his  admiration 

Can  heal  the  wound  He  gave ; 
Can  point  the  brimful  grief-worn  eyes 

of  "  Chatham's  Boy,"  called  down  on  him  the  dusty  in 

dignation  of  the  republican  Ritson.] 

To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

I- 

Virtue's  blossoms  there  shall  blow, 

When  Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood, 

And  fear  no  withering  blast ; 

And  did  our  hellim  thraw,  man, 

There  Isabella's  spotless  worth 

Ae  night,  at  tea,  began  a  plea, 

Shall  happy  be  at  last. 

Within  America,  man : 

Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin-pat, 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man; 
An'  did  nae  less  in  full  Congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 

LXXIV. 

«» 

TO   MISS   LOGAN, 

II. 

WITH   BEATTIE's   poems   FOR  A  NEW  YEAR's  GIFT, 

Then  thro'  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 

I  wat  he  was  na  slaw,  man ; 

Jan.  1,  1787. 

Down  Lowrie's  burn  he  took  a  turn. 

[Burns  was  fond  of  writing  compliments  in  books,  and 

And  Carleton  did  ca',  man; 

giving  them  in  presents  among   his  fair  friends.    Miss 

But  yet,  what-reck,  he,  at  Quebec, 

Logan,  of  Park  house,  was   sister  to  Major  Logan,  of 
Camiarg,  and  the   "  sentimental   sister  Susie,"   of  the 

Montgomery-like  did  fa',  man, 

Epistle  to  her  brother.    Both  these  names  were  early 

Wi'  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 

dropped  out  of  the  poet's  correspondence.! 

Amang  his  en'mies  a',  man. 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        143 

III. 

While  slee  Dundas  arous'd  the  class. 

Poor  Tammy  Gage,  within  a  cage, 

Be-north  the  Roman  wa',  man : 

Was  kept  at  Boston  ha',  man ; 

An'  Chatham's  wraith,  in  heavenly  graith. 

Till  Willie  Howe  took  o'er  the  knowe 

(Inspired  Bardies  saw,  man) 

For  Philadelphia,  man ; 

Wi'  kindling  eyes  cry'd  "Willie,  rise  1 

Wi'  sword  an'  gun  he  thought  a  sin 

Would  I  hae  fear'd  them  a',  man  V 

Guid  Christian  blood  to  draw,  man: 

But  at  New  York,  wi'  knife  an'  fork, 

IX. 

Sir-loin  he  hacked  sma',  man. 

But,  word  an'  blow,  North,  Fox,  and  Co., 

IV. 

Gowff 'd  Willie  like  a  ba',  man. 

Till  Suthron  raise,  and  coost  their  claise 

Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spur  an'  whip, 

Behind  him  in  a  raw,  man ; 

Till  Eraser  brave  did  fa',  man, 

An'  C  ale  don  threw  by  the  drone. 
An'  did  her  whittle  draw,  man ; 

Then  lost  his  way,  ae  misty  day, 

In  Saratoga  shaw,  man. 

An'  swoor  fu'  rude,  thro'  dirt  an'  blood 

Cornwallis  fought  as  lang's  he  dought. 

To  make  it  guid  in  law,  man. 

An'  did  the  buckskins  claw,  man ; 

•X-          *          *          *         * 

But  Clinton's  glaive  frae  rust  to  save, 

He  hung  it  to  the  wa',  man. 

V. 

Then  Montague,  an'  Guilford,  too. 

LXXVII. 

Began  to  fear  a  fa',  man ; 

And  Sackville  dour,  wha  stood  the  stoure, 

THE  DEAN   OF   FACULTY. 

The  German  Chief  to  thraw,  man ; 

A   NEW  BALLAD. 

For  Paddy  Burke,  like  ony  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a',  man  ; 

[The  Hal  and  Bob  of  these  satiric  lines  were  Henry 
Erskine,  and  Robert  Dnndas:  and  their  contention  wag, 

An'  Chai'lie  Fox  threw  by  the  box. 

as  the  verses  intimate,  for  the  place  of  Dean  of  tlie  Fa- 

An' lows'd  his  tinkler  jaw,  man. 

culty  of  Advocates :  Erskine  was  successful.     It  is  sup- 

posed that  in  characterizing  Dundas,  the  poet  remem- 

VI. 

bered  '<  the  incurable  wound  which  his  pride  had  got" 

in  the  affair  of  the  elegiac  verses  on  the  death  of  the  eldei 

Then  Rockingham  took  up  the  game. 

Dundas.    The  poem  first  appeared  in  the  Rehques  of 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca',  man ; 

Burns.] 

When  Shelburne  meek  held  up  his  cheek, 

I. 

Conform  to  gospel  law,  man ; 

Saint  Stephen's  boys,  wi'  jarring  noise. 

Dire  was  the  hate  at  old  Harlaw, 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man. 

That  Scot  to  Scot  did  carry ; 

For  North  an'  Fox  united  stocks, 

And  dire  the  discord  Langside  saw. 

An'  bore  him  to  the  wa',  man. 

For  beauteous,  hapless  Mary  : 

But  Scot  with  Scot  ne'er  met  so  hot. 

VII. 

Or  were  more  in  fury  seen,  Sir, 

Then  clubs  an'  hearts  were  Charlie's  cartes, 

Than  'twixt  Hal  and  Bob  for  the  famous  job— 

11'  swept  the  stakes  awa',  man, 

Who  should  be  Faculty's  Dean,  Sir.— 

Till  the  diamond's  ace,  of  Indian  race, 

Led  him  a  sair /a«z  pas,  man ; 

11. 

The  Saxon  lads,  wi'  loud  placads. 

This  Hal  for  genius,  wit,  and  lore, 

On  Chatham's  boy  did  ca',  man  ; 

Among  the  first  was  number'd ; 

An'  Scotland  drew  her  pipe,  an'  blew, 

But  pious  Bob,  'mid  learning's  store, 

"  Up,  Willie,  waur  them  a',  man  I" 

Commandment  tenth  remember'd. — 

Yet  simple  Bob  the  victory  got, 

VIII. 

And  won  his  heart's  desire ; 

Behind  the  throne  then  Grenville's  gone. 

Which  shows  fhat  heaven  can  boil  the  pot, 

A  secret  word  or  twa,  man ; 

Though  the  devil  p— s  in  the  fire. — 

144 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


Squire  Hal  besides  had  in  this  case 

Pretensions  rather  brassy, 
For  talents  to  deserve  a  place 

Are  qualifications  saucy ; 
So,  their  worships  of  the  Faculty, 

Quite  sick  of  merit's  rudeness, 
Chose  one  who  should  owe  it  all,  d'ye  see, 

To  their  gratis  grace  and  goodness. — 


As  once  on  Pisgah  purg'd  was  the  sight 

Of  &  son  of  Circumcision, 
So  may  be,  on  this  Pisgah  height, 

Bob's  purblind,  mental  vision  : 
Nay,  Bobby's  mouth  may  be  open'd  yet 

Till  for  eloquence  you  hail  him. 
And  swear  he  has  the  angel  met 

That  met  the  Ass  of  Balaam. 


Lxxvn. 

TO  A  LADY, 

WITH  A  PRESENT    OF  A   PAIB.   OP   DRIXK1NG-GIASSE3. 

[To  Mrs.  M'Lehose,  of  Edinburgh,  the  poet  presented 
the  drinking-ghisses  alluded  to  in  the  verses:  tliey  are, 
it  seems,  still  preserved,  and  the  lady  on  occasions  of  high 
festivul,  indulges,  it  is  said,  favourite  visiters  with  a 
draught  from  them  of  "The  blood  of  Shiraz'  scorched 
vine."] 

Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet's  soul. 

And  Queen  of  Poetesses ; 
Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon. 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses. 

And  fill  them  high  with  generous  juice, 

As  generous  as  your  mind ; 
And  pledge  me  in  the  generous  toast — 

"  The  whole  of  human  kind !" 

**  To  those  who  love  us !" — second  fill ; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love ; 
Lest  we  love  those  who  love  not  us ! — 

A  third—"  to  thee  and  me,  love  I" 


LXXVIII. 

TO   CLARINDA. 

[This  is  the  lady  of  the  drinking-glasses ;  the  Mrs.  Mac 
of  many  a  toast  among  the  poet's  acquaintances.  She 
was,  in  tliose  days,  young  and  beautiful,  and  we  fear  a 
little  giddy,  since  she  indulged  in  that  sentimenUiJ  and 
Platonic  flirtation  with  the  poet,  contained  in  the  well- 
known  letters  to  Clarinda.  The-letters,  after  the  poet'i 
death,  appeared  in  print  without  her  permission  :  she  ob- 
tained an  !njuncti<m  against  the  publication,  which  still 
remains  in  force,  but  her  anger  seems  to  have  been  less 
a  matter  of  taste  than  of  whim,  for  the  injunction  has 
been  allowed  to  slum!)er  in  the  case  of  some  editor*" 
though  it  has  been  enforced  against  others.] 

Clabinda,  mistress  of  my  soul. 

The  measur'd  time  is  run ! 
The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole 

So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

/ 
To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 

Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie ; 
Depriv'd  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 

The  sun  of  all  his  joy. 

We  part — but,  by  these  precious  drops 

That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes  ! 
No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 

Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 

Has  blest  my  glorious  day ; 
And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  ^x 

My  worship  to  its  ray  ? 


LXXIX. 
VERSES 

WRITTEN  UNDETT  VVK  PORTRAIT  OF  FERGTTSSOX,  THT 
POET,  IN  A  CO-"Y  I?  THAT  AUTHOR'S  WORKS  PRE- 
SENTED  TO  A    TOBNS   LADY. 

[Who  the  young  lady  wrs  to  w^om  the  poet  presented 
the  portrait  and  Poems  of  the  ill-fated  Fergusson,  we 
have  not  been  told.  The  verses  are  dated  Edinburgh, 
March  19th,  ]787.] 

Curse  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  be  pleas'd, 

And  yet  can  starve  the  author  of  the  pleasure  ! 

0  thou  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune, 

By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  muses. 

With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 

Why  is  the  bard  unpitied  by  the  world. 

Yet  has  so  keen  a  relish  of  its  pleasurep  ' 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


145 


LXXX. 

PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN   BY   MR.    WOODS    ON    HIS    BENEFIT   NIGHT, 
Monday,  16  April,  1787. 

[The  Woods  for  whom  this  Prologue  was  written,  was 
In  those  days  a  popular  actor  in  Edinburgh.  He  had 
other  claims  on  Burns  :  he  had  been  the  friend  as  well 
as  comrade  of  poor  Fergusson,  and  possessed  some 
poetical  talent.  He  died  in  Edinburgh,  December  14th, 
1802.] 

When  by  a  generous  Public's  kind  acclaim, 
That  clearest  meed  is  granted — honest  fame ; 
When  here  your  favour  is  the  actor's  lot, 
Nor  even  the  man  in  private  life  forgot ; 
What  breast  so  dead  to  heavenly  virtue's  glow, 
But  heaves  impassion'd  with  the  grateful  throe  ? 

Poor  is  the  task  to  please  a  barbarous  throng. 
It  needs  no  Siddons'  powers  in  Southerne's  song; 
But  here  an  ancient  nation  fam'd  afar. 
For  genius,  learning  high,  as  great  in  war — 
Ilail,  Caledonia,  name  for  ever  dear  ! 
Before  whose  sons  I'm  honoured  to  appear! 
Where  every  science — every  nobler  art — 
That  can  inform  the  mind,  or  mend  the  heart. 
Is  known ;  as  grateful  nations  oft  have  found 
Far  as  the  rude  barbarian  marks  the  bound. 
Philosophy,  no  idle  pedant  dream, 
Here  holds  her  search  by  heaven-taught  Rea- 
son's beam; 
Here  History  paints,  with  elegance  and  force, 
The  tide  of  Empires'  fluctuating  course ; 
Here  Douglas  forms  wild  Shakspeare  into  plan, 
And  Harley'  rouses  all  the  god  in  man. 
When  well-form'd  taste  and  sparkling  wit  unite, 
With  manly  lore,  or  female  beauty  bright, 
(Beauty,  where  faultless  symmetry  and  grace, 
Can  only  charm  as  in  the  second  place,) 
Witness  my  heart,  how  oft  with  panting  fear, 
As  on  this  night,  I've  met  these  judges  here  1 
But  still  the  hope  Experience  taught  to  live, 
Equal  to  judge — you're  candid  to  forgive. 
Nor  hundred-headed  Riot  here  we  meet. 
With  decency  and  law  beneath  his  feet : 
Nor  Insolence  assumes  fair  Freedom's  name ; 
Like  Caledonians,  you  applaud  or  blame. 

0  Thou  dread  Power!  whose  Empire-giving  hand 
Has  oft  been  stretch'd  to  shield  the  honour'd 
land! 


•  The  Man  of  Fee.mg.  by  Mackenzie. 
10 


Strong  may  she  glow  with  all  her  ancient  fire : 
May  every  son  be  worthy  of  his  sire ; 
Firm  may  she  rise  with  generous  disdain 
At  Tyranny's,  or  direr  Pleasure's  chain; 
Still  self-dependent  in  her  native  shore. 
Bold  may  she  brave  grim  Danger's  loudest  rear, 
Till  Fate  the  curtain  drop  on  worlds  to  be  no 
more. 


LXXXI. 

SKETCH. 

[This  Sketch  is  a  portion  of  a  long  Poem  which  Burns 
proposed  to  call  "  The  Poet's  Progress."  He  communi- 
cated  tlie  little  he  had  done,  for  he  was  a  courier  of 
opinions,  to  Dugald  Stewart.  "  The  Fragment  forms," 
said  he,  "  the  postulata,  the  axioms,  the  definition  of  a 
character,  which,  if  it  appear  at  all,  shall  be  placed  in  a 
variety  of  lights.  This  particular  part  I  send  you,  merely 
as  a  sample  of  my  hand  at  portrait-sketching."  It  is  pro- 
bable that  the  professor's  response  was  not  favourable 
for  we  hear  no  more  of  the  Poem.] 

A  LITTLE,  upright,  pert,  tart,  tripping  wight. 
And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  delight ; 
Who  loves  his  own  smart  shadow  in  the  streets 
Better  than  e'er  the  fairest  she  he  meets  : 
A  man  of  fashion,  too,  he  made  his  tour, 
Learn'd  vive  la  bagatelle,  et  vive  I'amour : 
So  travell'd  monkeys  their  grimace  improve, 
Polish  their  grin,  nay,  sigh  for  ladies'  love. 
Much  specious  lore,  but  little  understood ; 
Veneering  oft  outshines  the  solid  wood : 
His  solid  sense — by  inches  you  must  tell. 
But  mete  his  cunning  by  the  old  Scots  ell ; 
His  meddling  vanity,  a  busy  fiend. 
Still  making  work  his  selfish  craft  must  mend. 


LXXXII. 
TO    MRS.    SCOTT, 

OF    WAUCnOPE. 

[The  lady  to  whom  this  epistle  is  addressed  was  » 
painter  and  a  poetess :  her  pencil  sketches  are  said  to 
have  been  beautiful ;  and  she  had  a  ready  skill  in  rhyme, 
as  the  verses  addressed  to  Burns  fully  testify.  Taste  and 
poetry  belonged  to  her  family  :  she  was  the  niece  of  Mr* 
Cockburn,  authoress  of  a  beautiful  variation  of  The 
Flowers  of  the  Forest] 

I  MIND  it  weel  in  early  date. 
When  I  was  beardless,  young  and  blate, 
An'  first  could  thresh  the  barn ; 


146 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Or  haud  a  yokin  at  the  pleugh ; 
An'  tho'  forfoughten  sair  enough, 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn : 
When  first  amang  the  yellow  corn 

A  man  I  reckon'd  was, 
An'  wr'  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass, 
Still  shearing,  and  clearing, 

The  tither  stooked  raw, 
Wi'  claivers,  an'  haivers, 
Wearing  the  day  awa. 

E'en  then,  a  wish,  I  mind  its  pow'r, 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast, 
That  I  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake 
Some  usefu'  plan  or  beuk  could  make, 

Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  burr-thistle,  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
1  turn'd  the  weeder-clips  aside. 
An'  spar'd  the  symbol  dear : 
No  nation,  no  station. 

My  envy  e'er  could  raise, 
A  Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 
I  knew  nae  higher  praise. 

But  still  the  elements  a'  sang 

In  formless  jumble,  right  an'  wrang. 

Wild  floated  in  my  brain ; 
'Till  on  that  har'st  I  said  before. 
My  partner  in  the  merry  core. 

She  rous'd  the  forming  strain : 
I  see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean. 

That  lighted  up  her  jingle, 
Her  witching  smile,  her  pauky  een 
That  gart  my  heart-strings  tingle : 
I  fired,  inspired. 

At  every  kindling  keek, 
But  bashing  and  dashing 
I  feared  aye  to  speak. 

■Health  to  the  sex,  ilk  guid  chiel  says, 
Wi'  merry  dance  in  winter  dayS; 

An'  we  to  share  in  common : 
The  gust  o'  joy,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  saul  o'  life,  the  heaven  below. 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 
Ye  surly  sumphs,  who  hate  the  name. 

Be  mindfu'  o'  your  mither : 
She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 

That  ye're  connected  with  her. 


Ye're  wae  men,  ye're  nae  men 
That  slight  the  lovely  dears ; 

To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye. 
Ilk  honest  birkie  swears. 

For  you,  no  bred  tc  barn  and  byre, 
Wha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre, 

Thanks  to  you  for  your  line : 
The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare, 
By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware ; 

'Twad  please  me  to  the  nine. 
I'd  be  mair  vauntie  o'  my  hap. 

Douce  hingin'  owre  my  curple 
Than  ony  ermine  ever  lap, 
Or  proud  imperial  purple. 

Fareweel  then,  lang  heel  then, 

An'  plenty  be  your  fa' ; 
May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne'er  at  your  hallan  ca*. 


Lxxxm. 

EPISTLE    TO    WILLIAM    CREECH. 

[A  storm  of  rain  detained  Burns  one  day,  during  his 
border  tour,  at  Selkirk,  and  he  employed  his  time  in 
writing  this  characteristic  epistle  to  Creech,  his  book- 
Beller.  Creech  was  a  person  of  education  and  taste  :  he 
was  not  only  the  most  popular  pul^lisher  in  the  north, 
but  he  was  intimate  with  almost  all  the  distinguished 
men  who,  in  those  days,  adorned  Scottish  literature. 
But  though  a  joyous  man,  a  lover  of  sociality,  and  the 
keeper  of  a  good  table,  he  was  close  and  parsimonious, 
and  loved  to  hold  money  to  the  last  moment  that  the  law 
allowed.] 

Selkirh,  13  May,  1787. 
Auld  chukie  Reekie's'  sair  distrest, 
Down  droops  her  ance  weel-burnisht  crest, 
Nae  joy  her  bonnie  buskit  nest 

Can  yield  ava. 
Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo'es  best, 

Willie's  awa! 

0  Willie  was  a  witty  wight, 

And  had  o'  things  an  unco  slight ; 

Auld  Reekie  ay  he  keepit  tight. 

An'  trig  an'  braw : 
But  now  they'll  busk  her  like  a  fright, 

Willie's  awa ! 

The  stiffest  o'  them  a'  he  bow'd ; 
The  bauldest  o'  them  a'  he  cow'd ; 

1  Edinburgh. 


OF   IIOBEIIT   BUKNS. 


U? 


Ihey  durst  nae  mair  than  he  allow'd, 

That  was  a  law; 
iVe've  lost  a  birkie  weel  worth  gowd, 

Willie's  awa ! 

Now  gawkies,  tawpies,  gowks,  and  fools, 
Frae  colleges  and  boarding-schools, 
May  sprout  like  simmer  jjuddock  stools 

In  glen  or  shaw  ; 
He  wha  could  brush  them  down  to  mools, 

Willie's  awa! 

The  brethren  o'  the  Commerce-Chaumer' 
May  mourn  their  loss  wi'  doofu'  clamour ; 
He  was  a  dictionar  and  grammar 

Amang  them  a' ; 
I  fear  they'll  now  mak  mony  a  stammer, 

Willie's  awa ! 

Nae  mair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Philosophers  and  poets  pour,^ 
And  toothy  critics  by  the  score 

In  bloody  raw ! 
The  adjutant  o'  a'  the  core, 

Willie's  awa ! 

Now  worthy  Gregory's  Latin  face, 
Tytler's  and  Greenfield's  modest  grace ; 
Mackenzie,  Stewart,  sic  a  brace 

As  Rome  n'er  saw ; 
They  a'  maun  meet  some  ither  place, 

Willie's  awa  ! 

Poor  Burns — e'en  Scotch  drink  canna  quicken. 
He  cheeps  like  some  bewilder'd  chicken, 
Scar'd  frae  its  minnie  and  the  cleckin 

By  hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's  gien  his  heart  an  unco  kickin', 

Willie's  awa ! 

Now  ev'ry  sour-mou'd  gimin'  blellum. 
And  Calvin's  fock  are  fit  to  fell  him ; 
And  self-conceited  critic  skellum 

His  quill  may  draw ; 
He  wha  could  brawlie  ward  their  bellum, 

Willie's  awa ! 

Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I've  sped, 
And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 
And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  red. 

While  tempests  blaw ; 
But  every  joy  and  pleasure's  fled, 

Willie's  awa  I 

1  The  Chamber  o'*  Commerce  in  Edinburgh,  of  woich 
Crer.jh  was  Secretary. 


May  I  be  slander's  common  speech ; 
A  text  for  infamy  to  preach ; 
And  lastly,  streekit  out  to  bleach 

In  winter  snaw ; 
"V^Tien  I  forget  thee  !  Willie  Creech, 

Tho'  far  awa ! 

May  never  wicked  fortune  touzle  him ! 
May  never  wicked  man  bamboozle  him ! 
Until  a  pow  as  auld's  Methusalem 

He  canty  claw  I 
Then  to  the  blessed  New  Jerusalem, 

Fleet  wing  awa ! 


LXXXIV. 


HUMBLE  PETITION  OF  BRUAR  WATER 

TO   THE 

NOBLE  DUKE   OF   ATHOLE. 

[The  Falls  of  Bruar  in  Athole  are  exceedingly  beau- 
tiful and  picturesque ;  and  tlieir  effect,  when  Burns 
visited  them,  was  much  impaired  by  want  of  shrubs  and 
trees.  This  was  in  17S7  :  the  poet,  accompanied  by  his 
future  biographer,  Professor  Walker,  went,  when  close 
on  twilight,  to  this  romantic  scene  :  "  he  threw  himself," 
said  the  Professor,  "on  a  heathy  sent,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  a  tender,  abstracted,  and  voluptuous  enthusiasnc 
of  imagination.  In  a  few  days  I  received  a  letter  from 
Inverness,  for  the  poet  had  gone  on  his  way,  with  the 
Petition  enclosed."  His  Grace  of  Athole  obeyed  the 
injunction :  the  picturesque  points  are  now  crowned 
with  thriving  woods,  and  the  beauty  of  the  Falls  is  much 
increased.] 

I. 

Mt  Lokd,  I  know  your  noble  ear 

Woe  ne'er  assails  in  vain ; 
Embolden'd  thus,  I  beg  you'll  hear 

Your  humble  slave  complain, 
How  saucy  Phoebus'  scorching  beams 

In  flaming  summer-pride, 
Dry-withering,  waste  my  foamy  streams. 

And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

II. 

The  lightly-jumpin'  glowrin'  trouts, 

That  thro'  my  waters  play. 
If,  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts, 

They  near  the  margin  stray ; 

>  Many  literary  gentlemen  were  accustomed  to  mMl 
at  Mr.  Creech's  house  at  breakfast. 


148 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


If,  hapless  chance !  they  linger  lang, 

I'm  scorching  up  so  shallow, 
They're  left  the  whitening  stanes  amang, 

In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 


Last  day  I  grat  wi'  spite  and  teen, 

As  Poet  Burns  came  by. 
That  to  a  bard  I  should  be  seen 

Wi'  half  my  channel  dry : 
A  panegyric  rhyme,  I  ween. 

Even  as  I  was  he  shor'd  me  ; 
But  had  I  in  my  glory  been. 

He,  kneeling,  wad  ador'd  me. 

IV. 

Here,  foaming  down  the  shelvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I  rin ; 
There,  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes. 

Wild-roaring  o'er  a  linn  : 
Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well. 

As  Nature  gave  them  me, 
I  am,  altho'  I  say't  mysel', 

Worth  gaun  a  mile  to  see. 


Would  then  my  noble  master  please 

To  grant  my  highest  wishes, 
He'll  shade  my  banks  wi'  tow'ring  trees. 

And  bonnie  spreading  bushes. 
Delighted  doubly  then,  my  Lord, 

You'll  wander  on  my  banks, 
And  listen  mony  a  grateful  bird 

Return  you  tuneful  thanks. 


The  sober  laverock,  warbling  wild, 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire ; 
The  gowdspink,  music's  gayest  child, 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir : 
The  blackbird  strong,  the  lintwhite  clear. 

The  mavis  mild  and  mellow ; 
The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer, 

In  all  her  locks  of  yellow. 


This,  too,  a  covert  shall  insure 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm ; 
And  coward  maukin  sleep  secure. 

Low  in  her  grassy  form : 
Here  shall  the  shepherd  make  his  seat, 

To  weave  his  crown  of  flow'rs  ; 
Or  find  a  shelt'ring  safe  retreat 

From  prpne-descending  show'rs. 


VIII. 

And  here,  by  sweet,  endearing  stealth, 

Shall  meet  the  loving  pair. 
Despising  worlds  with  all  their  wealth 

As  empty  idle  care. 
The  flow'rs  shall  vie  in  all  their  charms 

The  hour  of  heav'n  to  grace, 
And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms 

To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 


Here  haply  too,  at  vernal  dawn. 

Some  musing  bard  may  stray. 
And  eye  the  smoking,  dewy  lawn. 

And  misty  mountain  gray  ; 
Or,  by  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 

Mild-chequering  thro'  the  trees, 
Rave  to  my  darkly-dashing  stream, 

Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze. 

X. 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool. 

My  lowly  hanks  o'erspread. 
And  view,  d-.np-bending  in  the  pool. 

Their  sha'l:)ws'  wat'ry  bed  ! 
Let  fragrant  birks  in  woodbines  drest 

My  craggv  cliffs  adorn ; 
And,  for  the  little  songster's  nest. 

The  close  f  mbow'ring  thorn. 

XI. 

So  may  old  ^'^wtia's  darling  hope. 

Your  little  «--ngel  band. 
Spring,  like  ^eir  fathers,  up  to  prop 

Their  hono^rr'd  native  land ! 
So  may  thro'  A"'bion's  farthest  ken. 

To  social-flow' ng  glasses. 
The  grace  be — "Athole's  honest  men, 

And  Athole's  bonnie  lasses  ?" 


LXXXV. 
ON   SCARING    SOME  WATER-FOT^y 

IN  LOCH-TUBIT. 

[When  Burns  wrote  ~.hese  touching  lines,  '.le  was  stay- 
ing with  Sir  William  Murray,  of  Ochtert^-re,  during  oni 
of  his  Highland  tours.  Loch-Turit  is  a  wild  lake  among 
the  recesses  of  the  hilh-,and  was  welcome  from  its  one 
liness  to  the  heart  of  the  poet.] 

Why,  ye  tenant?  of  the  lake, 
For  me  your  wat'ry  haunt  forsake  t 
Tell  me,  fellow-cr<«atures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


14& 


Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 
Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  ? — 
Common  friend  to  you  and  me. 
Nature's  gifts  to  all  are  free : 
Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave. 
Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave  ; 
Or,  beneath  the  sheltering  rock, 
Bide  the  surging  billow's  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race. 
Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I  trace. 
Man,  your  proud  usurping  foe, 
Would  be  lord  of  all  below  : 
Plumes  himself  in  Freedom's  pride. 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 

The  eagle,  from  the  cliffy  brow. 
Marking  you  his  prey  below. 
In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells, 
Strong  necessity  compels : 
But  man,  to  whom  alone  is  giv'n 
A  ray  direct  from  pitying  heav'n, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane — 
And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain. 

In  these  savage,  liquid  plains. 
Only  known  to  wand'ring  swains, 
Where  the  mossy  riv'let  strays. 
Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways  ; 
All  on  Nature  you  depend. 
And  life's  poor  season  peaceful  spend. 

Or,  if  man's  superior  might 
Dare  invade  your  native  right. 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 
Man  with  all  his  pow'rs  you  scorn ; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings. 
Other  lakes  and  other  springs ; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 
Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


LXXXVI. 
WRITTEN  WITH   A   PENCIL, 

OVER    THE    CHIMNEY-PIECE,    IM    THE    PARLOUR    OF    THB 
INN   AT   KSNMOEB,   TAYMOHTH. 

[The  castle  of  Taymouth  is  the  residence  of  the  Earl 
of  Broadan.cne :  it  is  n  magnificent  structure,  contains 
many  fine  piintiugs:  has  some  splendid  old  trees  and 
romantic  scene r)*.] 

Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 

These  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I  trace; 


O'er  many  a  winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 
Th'  abodes  of  covey'd  grouse  and  timid  she«p, 
My  savage  journey,  curious  I  pursue, 
'Till  fam'd  Breadalbane  opens  to  my  view. — 
The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 
The  woods,  wild  scatter'd,  clothe  their  ampl« 

sides ; 
Th'  outstretching  lake,   embosom'd  'mcng  tne 

hills, 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills ; 
The  Tay,  meand'ring  sweet  in  infant  pride, 
The  palace,  rising  on  its  verdant  side ; 
The  lawns,   wood-fring'd   in   Nature's   native 

taste ; 
The  hillocks,  dropt  in  Nature's  careless  haste ; 
The  arches,  striding  o'er  the  new-born  stream  ; 
The  village,  glittering  in  the  noontide  beam — 


Poetic  ardours  in  my  bosom  swell. 
Lone  wand'ring  by  the  hermit's  mossy  cell : 
The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods  ; 
Th'  incessant  roar  of  headlong  tumbling  floods — 
***** 

Here    Poesy   might   wake   her    heav'n-taught 

lyre, 
And  look  through  Nature  with  creative  fire ; 
Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  fate  half  reconcil'd. 
Misfortune's    lighten'd    steps    might    wander 

wild; 
And  Disappointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds, 
Find    balm    to    soothe    her    bitter  —  rankling 

wounds : 
Hore    heart-struck    Grief    might    heav'nward 

stretch  her  scan. 
And  injur'd  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 

***** 


Lxxxvn. 

WRITTEN  WITH   A  PENCIL, 

STANDING  BY  THE  FALL  OF  FYERS, 

NEAR    LOCH-!VE«8 

[This  is  one  of  the  many  fine  scenes,  in  the  Celtic 
Parnassus  of  Ossian  :  but  when  Burns  saw  it,  the  High- 
land  passion  of  the  stream  was  abated,  for  there  had 
been  no  rain  f(»r  some  time  to  swell  and  send  it  pouring 
down  its  precipices  in  a  way  worthy  of  the  scene.  The 
descent  of  the  water  is  about  two  hundred  feet.  Tliere 
ia  anc'^v  fall  further  up  the  stream,  very  wild  ani 


150 


THE   POETICAL  WOEKS 


lavage,  on  wliich  the  Fyers  makes  three  prodigious  leaps 
into  u  deep  gulf  where  nothing  can  be  seen  for  the  whirl- 
ing foam  and  agitated  mist.] 

Among  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods 
The  roaring  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods ; 
Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds, 
Where,  thro'  a  shapeless  breach,  his  stream  re- 
sounds, 
As  high  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow, 
As  deep-recoiling  surges  foam  below, 
Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet  de- 
scends. 
And  viewless  Echo's  ear,  astonish'd,  rends. 
Dim  seen,  through  rising  mists  and  ceaseless 

show'rs, 
The  hoary  cavern,  wide  surrounding,  low'rs. 
Still  thro'  the  gap  the  struggling  river*  toils. 
And  still  below,  the  horrid  cauldron  boils — 


LXXXVIII. 

POETICAL   ADDRESS 

TO  MR.  W.  TYTLER, 

WITH   THE   PRESENT    OF   THE  BARD's    PICTTJRB. 

[When  these  verses  were  written  there  was  much 
stately  Jacobitism  about  Edinburgh,  and  it  is  likely  that 
Tytler,  who  laboured  to  dispel  the  cloud  of  calumny 
which  hung  over  the  memory  of  Queen  Mary,  had  a 
bearing  that  way.  Taste  and  talent  have  now  descended 
in  the  Ty tiers  through  three  generations:  an  uncommon 
event  in  families.  The  present  edition  of  the  Poem  has 
been  completed  from  the  original  in  the  poet's  hand- 
writing.] 

Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 
Of  Stuart,  a  name  once  respected, 

A  name,  which  to  love,  was  once  mark  of  a  true 
heart, 
But  now  'tis  despis'd  and  neglected. 

Tho'  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in  my  eye, 

Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; 
A  poor  friendless  wand'rer  may  well  claim  a 
sigh. 

Still  more,  if  that  wand'rer  were  royal. 

My  fathers  that  name  have  rever'd  on  a  throne, 
My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; 

Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degenerate  son, 
That  name  should  he  scoffingly  slight  it. 


Still  in  prayers  for  King  George  I  most  heartily 
join. 

The  Queen  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry. 
Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of  mine ; 

Their  title's  avow'd  by  my  country. 

But  why  of  that  epocha  make  such  a  fuss, 

That  gave  us  th'  Electoral  stem  ? 
If  bringing  them  over  was  lucky  for  us, 

I'm  sure  'twas  as  lucky  for  them. 

But  loyalty  truce !  we're  on  dangerous  ground, 
Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  alter  ? 

The  doctrine,  to-day,  that  is  loyalty  sound. 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a  halter. 

I  send  you  a  trifle,  the  head  of  a  bard, 
A  trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care ; 

But  accept  it,  good  Sir,  as  a  mark  of  regard. 
Sincere  as  a  saint's  dying  prayer. 

Now  life's  chilly  evening  dim  shades  on  your  eye, 
And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night ; 

But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart  gilds  the  sky. 
Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright. 
*  *  *  *  ♦ 


LXXXIX. 


WRITTEN  IN 


FRIARS-CARSE   HERMITAGE, 

ON   THE    BANKS    OF   NITH. 

June,  1788. 

[first  copy.] 

[The  interleaved  volume  presented  by  Burns  to  Dr. 
Geddes,  has  enabled  me  to  present  the  reader  with  th« 
rough  draught  of  this  truly  beautiful  Poem,  the  first- 
fruits  perhaps  of  his  intercourse  with  the  muses  of  Nith- 
side.] 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed. 
Be  thou  deck'd  in  silken  stole. 
Grave  these  maxims  on  thy  soul. 
Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost; 
Day,  how  rapid  in  its  flight — 
Day,  how  few  must  see  the  night ; 
Hope  not  sunshine  every  hour. 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 
Happiness  is  but  a  name. 
Make  content  and  ease  thy  aim. 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS.                                       151 

Ambition  is  a  meteor  gleam ; 

Hope  not  sunshine  ev'ry  hour, 

Fame,  a  restless  idle  dream : 

Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lour. 

Pleasures,  insects  on  the  wing 

As  Youth  and  Love  with  sprightly  dance 

Round  Peace,  the  tenderest  flower  of  Spring ; 

Beneath  thy  morning  star  advance. 

Those  that  sip  the  dew  alone, 

Pleasure  with  her  siren  air 

Make  the  butterflies  thy  own; 

May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair : 

Those  that  would  the  bloom  devour, 

Let  Prudence  bless  enjoyment's  cup. 

Crush  the  locusts — save  the  flower. 

Then  raptur'd  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

For  the  future  be  prepar'd, 

Guard  wherever  thou  canst  guard ; 
But,  thy  utmost  duly  done. 
Welcome  what  thou  canst  not  shun. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high. 
Life's  meridian  flaming  nigh. 

Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 

Follies  past,  give  thou  to  air. 
Make  their  consequence  thy  care : 

Life's  proud  summits  would'st  thou  scale' 
Check  thy  climbing  step,  elate. 
Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait : 

Keep  the  name  of  man  in  mind, 

And  dishonour  not  thy  kind. 

Reverence  with  lowly  heart 

Him  whose  wondrous  work  thou  art ; 

Dangers,  eagle-pinion'd,  bold. 

Soar  around  each  clifi"y  hold. 

While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song, 

Keep  His  goodness  still  in  view, 

Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

Thy  trust — and  thy  example,  too. 

As  the  shades  of  ev'ning  close. 

Stranger,  go !  Heaven  be  thy  guide  ! 
Quod  the  Beadsman  on  Nithside. 

Beck'ning  thee  to  long  repose ; 
As  life  itself  becomes  disease. 
Seek  the  chimney-nook  of  ease. 

There  ruminate,  with  sober  thought. 

On  all  thou'st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought; 

And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round, 

XO. 

Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 

Say,  man's  true  genuine  estimate. 

WKITTEN   IN 

The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate. 

FRIARS-CARSE  HERMITAGE, 

Is  not — Art  thou  high  or  low  ? 

ON    NITHSIDE. 

Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 

Dkcembbe,  1788. 

Wast  thou  cottager  or  king  ? 
Peer  or  peasant  ? — no  such  thing ! 

[Of  this  Poem  Burns  thought  so  well  that  he  gave 

Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 

away  many  copies  in  his  own  handwriting :  I  have  seen 

Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 

three.    When  corrected  to  his  mind,  and  the  manuscripts 

Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind. 

showed  many  changes  and  corrections,  he  published  it 

in  the  new  edition  of  his  Poems  as  it  stands  in  this  second 

As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find. 

copy.    The  little  Hermitage  where   these  lines  were 

The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Heav'n, 

written,  stood  in  a  lonely  plantation  belonging  to  the 

To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  giv'n. 

estate  of  Friars-Curse,  and  close  to  the  march-dyke  of 

Say,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise, 

Ellisland;  a  small  door  in  the  fence,  of  which  the  poet 
had  the  key,  admitted  him  at  pleasure,  and  there  he  found 

There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies; 

seclusion  such  as  he  liked,  with  flowers  and  shrubs  all 

That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways 

around  him.    The  first  twelve  lines  of  the  Poem  were 

Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile,  and  base 

engraved  neatly  on  one  of  the  window-panes,  by  the 

jiamo-d   pencil  of  the   bard.    On  Riddel's  death,  the 

Thus,  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 

[lermitnare  was  allowed  to  go  quietly  to  decay :  I  remem- 

To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep ; 

Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne'er  awake, 

.    bar  in  1803  turning  two  outlyer  stots  out  of  the  interior.] 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead. 

Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break. 

Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 

Till  future  life,  future  no  more, 

Be  thou  deck'd  in  silken  stole, 

To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore, 

Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 

To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 

Stranger,  go !  Hea'vn  be  thy  guide  I 

Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost; 

Quod  the  beadsman  of  Nithside 

152 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


xci. 
TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL, 

OF   GLENRIDDEL. 
EXTBJVIPORK   LINES    OX   RETURNING  A   NEWSPAPER. 

[CnptEin  Riddel,  the  Laird  of  Friars-Carse,  was 
Burns's  neighbour,  at  Ellisland  :  he  was  a  kind,  hospi- 
table man,  and  a  good  antiquary.  Tlie  "  News  and 
Review-'  which  he  sent  to  the  poet  contained,  I  have 
heard,  some  sharp  strictures  on  his  works:  Burns,  with 
his  usu  il  strong  sense,  set  the  proper  value  upon  all 
contemporary  criticism;  genius,  he  knew,  had  nothing 
to  fear  from  the  folly  or  the  malice  of  all  such  nameless 
«•  chippers  and  hewers."  He  demanded  trial  by  his  pears, 
and  where  were  such  to  be  found  ?] 

Ellisland,  Monday  Evening. 
Your  news  .and  review,  Sir,  I've  read  through 
and  through,  Sir, 
With  little  admiring  or  blaming; 
The  papers  are  barren  of  home-news  ov  foreign, 
No  murders  or  rapes  worth  the  naming. 

Our  friends,  the  reviewers,  those  chippers  and 
hewers, 

Are  judges  of  mortar  and  stone,  Sir, 
But  of  meet  or  unmeet  in  a  fabric  complete, 

I'll  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none,  Sir. 

My  goose-quill  too  rude  is  to  tell  all  your  good- 
ness 

Bestow'd  on  your  servant,  the  Poet ; 
Would  to  God  I  had  one  like  a  beam  of  the  sun, 

And  then  all  the  world,  Sir,  should  know  it ! 


XCII. 
A  MOTHER'S   LAMENT 

FOR    THE   DEATH   OF   HER    SON. 

["  The  Mother's  Lament,"  says  the  poet,  in  a  copy  of 
the  verses  now  before  me,  "  was  composed  partly  with 
B  view  to  Mrs.  Fergusson  of  Craigdarroch,  and  partly  to 
tlie  worthy  patroness  of  my  early  unknown  muse,  Mrs. 
%iwart,  of  Afton."] 

Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped, 

And  pierc'd  mj'  darling's  heart ; 
And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 

Life  can  to  me  impart. 
By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops, 

In  dust  dishonour'd  laid : 
So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes, 

My  age's  future  shade. 


The  mother-linnet  in  the  brake 

Bewails  her  ravish'd  young  ; 
So  I,  for  my  lost  darling's  sake. 

Lament  the  live  day  long. 
Death,  oft  I've  fear'd  thy  fatal  blow, 

Now,  fond  I  bare  my  breast, 
0,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low 

With  him  I  love,  at  rest ! 


XCIII. 

FIRST   EPISTLE 

TO   ROBERT   GRAHAM,   ESQ. 

OK   FIXTRAY. 

[In  his  manuscript  copy  of  this  Epistle  the  poet  says 
"  accompanying  a  request."  What  the  request  was  the 
letter  which  enclosed  it  relates.  Graham  was  one  of  the 
leading  men  of  the  Excise  in  Scotland,  and  had  promised 
Burns  a  sitaati(m  as  exciseman:  for  this  the  poet  had 
qualified  himself;  and  as  he  began  to  dread  that  farming 
would  be  unprofitable,  he  wrote  to  remind  his  patron  of 
his  promise,  and  requested  to  be  appointed  to  a  division 
in  his  own  neighbourhood.  He  was  appointed  in  due 
time :  his  division  was  extensive,  and  included  ten 
parishes.] 

When  Nature  her  great  master-piece  designed, 
And  fram'd  her  last  best  work,  the  human  mind, 
Her  eye  intent  on  all  the  mazy  plan, 
She  form'd  of  various  parts  the  various  man. 

Then  first  she  calls  the  useful  many  forth ; 
Plain  plodding  industry,  and  sober  worth : 
Thence  peasants,  farmers,  native  sons  of  earth, 
And  merchandise'  whole  genus  take  their  birth: 
Each  prudent  cit  a  warm  existence  finds. 
And  all  mechanics'  many-apron'd  kinds. 
Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet, 
The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the  net ; 
The  caput  mortuum  of  gross  desires 
Makes  a  material  for  mere  knights  and  squires; 
The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  to  flow, 
She  kneads  the  lumpish  philosophic  dough. 
Then  marks  th'  unyielding  mass  with  grave  de* 

signs. 
Law,  physic,  politics,  and  deep  divines : 
Last,  she  sublimes  th'  Aurora  of  the  poles. 
The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 

The  order'd  system  fair  before  her  stood. 
Nature,  well  pleas'd,  pronounc'd  it  very  good; 
But  ere  she  gave  creating  labour  o'er, 
Half-jest,  she  tried  one  curious  labour  more 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


15B 


Some  spumy,  fiery,  ignis  fatuus  matter. 
Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  air  might  scat- 
ter; 
With  arch  alacrity  and  conscious  glee 
(Natur:;  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as  we, 
Hei  H./g&rth-art  perhaps  she  meant  to  show  it) 
She  foii:.3  Jie  thing,  and  christens  it — a  Poet. 
Creacure   tho'  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  to-day,  unmindful  of  to-morrow. 
A  being  form'd  t' amuse  his  graver  friends, 
Admir'd  and  prais'd — and   there  the   homage 

ends: 
A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  fortune's  strife, 
Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life ; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 
Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live ; 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

But  honest  Nature  is  not  quite  a  Turk, 

She  laugh'd   at   first,   then   felt  for  her  poor 

work. 
Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  mankind. 
She  cast  about  a  standard  tree  to  find ; 
And,  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine  state, 
Attach'd  him  to  the  generous  truly  great, 
A  title,  and  the  only  one  I  claim. 
To  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  bounteous  Graham. 

Pity  the  tuneful  muses'  hapless  train, 
Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life's  otormy  main ! 
Their  hearts  no  selfish  stern  absorbent  stuflF, 
That  never  gives — tho'  humbly  takes  enough ; 
The  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon. 
Unlike    sage   proverb'd  wisdom's    hard-wrung 

boon. 
The  world  were  blest  did  bliss  on  them  depend, 
Ah,    that    "  the  friendly   e'er   should  want   a 

friend!" 
Let  pru  lence  number  o'er  each  sturdy  son 
Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun, 
"Who  feel  by  reason  and  who  give  by  rule, 
(Instinct's  a  brute,  and  sentiment  a  fool !) 
Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  /  should — 
^^  e  own  they're  prudent,  but  who  feels  they're 

good  ? 
Ytj  wise  ones,  hence !  ye  hurt  the  social  eye  ! 
God's  image  rudely  etch'd  on  base  alloy  I 
But  come  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure  know, 
Heaven's  attribute  distinguished — to  bestow! 
Whose  arms  of  love  would  grasp  the  human  race : 
Come  thou  who  giv'st  with  all  a  courtier's  grace ; 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my  rhymes  I 
Prop  of  m'^  dearest  hopes  for  future  times. 


Why  shrinks  my  soul  half  blushing,  half  afraid, 
Backward,  abash'd  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid? 
I  know  my  need,  I  know  thy  giving  hand, 
I  crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command ; 
But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful  nine — 
Heavens !    should    the   branded   character    be 

mine ! 
Whose    verse    in   manhood's    pride    sublimely 

flows. 
Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 
Mark,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit 
Soars  on  the  spurning  wing  of  injur'd  merit! 
Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find ; 
Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind ! 
So  to  heaven's  gates  the  lark's  shrill  song  as- 
cends, 
But  grovelling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 
In  all  the  clam'rous  cry  of  starving  want. 
They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front ; 
Oblige  them,  patronize  their  tinsel  lays, 
They  persecute  you  all  your  future  days ! 
Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain, 
My  horny  fist  assume  the  plough  again  ; 
The  pie-bald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more ; 
On  eighteen-pence  a  week  Pve  liv'd  before. 
Tho',  thanks  to  Heaven,  I  dare  even  that  last 

shift! 
I  trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift: 
That,  plac'd  by  thee  upon  the  wish'd-for  height, 
Where,  man  and  nature  fairer  in  her  sight. 
My  muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  sublimei 
flight. 


XCIV. 

ON   THB   DEATH   07 

SIR  JAMES  HUNTER  BLAIR. 

[I  found  these  lines  written  with  n  pencil  in  one  of 
Burns's  memorandum-books:  he  said  he  had  just  com« 
posed  them,  and  pencilled  them  down  lest  they  should 
escape  from  his  memory.  They  differed  in  nothing  frona 
the  printed  copy  of  the  first  Liverpool  edition.  That 
they  are  by  Burns  there  cannot  be  a  doubt,  though  they 
were,  I  know  not  for  what  reason,  excluded  from  severaj 
editions  of  the  Posthumous  Works  of  the  poet.] 

Tm?  lamp  of  day,  with  ill-presaging  glare, 
Dim,  cloudy,  sunk  beneath  the  western  wave; 

Th'  inconstant  blast  howl'd  thro'  the  darkening 
air, 
And  hollow  whistled  in  the  rocky  cave. 


154 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


Lone  as  I  wander'd  by  each  cliff  and  dell, 
Once  the  lov'd  haunts  of  Scotia's  royal  train ;' 

Or  mus'd  where  limpid  streams  once  hallow'd 
well,2 
Oi  mould'ring  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fane.s 

Th'  increasing  blast  roared  round  the  beetling 
rocks, 
The  clouds,  swift-wing'd,  flew  o'er  the  starry 
sky, 
The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks. 
And  shooting  meteors  caught  the  startled  eye. 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east, 
And  'mong  the  cliffs  disclos'd  a  stately  form, 

In  weeds  of  woe  that  frantic  beat  her  breast, 
And  mix'd  her  wailings  with  the  raving  storm. 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

'Twas  Caledonia's  trophied  shield  I  view'd: 

Her  form  majestic  droop'd  in  pensive  woe. 
The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbued. 

Revers'd  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war, 
Reclined  that  banner,  erst  in  fields  unfurl'd. 

That  like  a  deathful  meteor  gleam'd  afar, 
And    brav'd    the   mighty   monarchs    of   the 
world. — 

"  My  patriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave !" 
With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms — she  cried ; 

"  Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretch'd  to  save, 
"  Low  lies  the  heart  that  swell'd  with  honest 
pride. 

**A  weeping  country  joins  a  widow's  tear. 
The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan's  cry  ; 

The  drooping  arts  surround  their  patron's  bier, 
And  grateful  science  heaves  the  heart-felt  sigh ! 

*'  I  saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire ; 

I  saw  fair  freedom's  blossoms  richly  blow : 
But  ah  !  how  hope  is  born  but  to  expire ! 

Relentless  fate  has  laid  their  guardian  low. 

"  My  patriot  falls,  but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 
"While  empty  greatness  saves  a  worthless  name ! 

iN'o;  every  muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue, 
And  future  ages  hear  his  growing  fame. 

**  And  I  will  join  a  mother's  tender  cares, 
Thro'  future  times  to  make  his  virtues  last; 

That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other  Blairs !" — 
She  said,  and  vani^h'd  with  the  sweeping  blast. 

1  Tiie  King's  Park,  at  Holyiood-house. 

2  St.  Anthony's  Well. 


xcv. 

EPISTLE  TO  HUGH  PARKER. 

[This  little  lively,  biting  epistle  was  addressed  to  OM 
of  the  poet's  Kilmarnock  companions,  Hugh  Parker 
was  the  brother  of  William  Parker,  one  of  the  sub- 
scribers to  the  Edinburgh  edition  of  Burns's  Poems  :  ha 
has  been  dead  many  years  :  the  Epistle  was  recoveied, 
luckily,  from  his  papers^  and  printed  fo-  tJie  first  time-ia 

In  this  strange  land,  this  uncouth  clime, 

A  land  unknown  to  prose  or  rhyme ; 

Where  words  ne'er  crost  the  muse's  heckles. 

Nor  limpet  in  poetic  shackles: 

A  land  that  prose  did  never  view  it, 

Except  when  drunk  he  stacher't  thro'  it, 

Here,  ambush'd  by  the  chimla  cheek. 

Hid  in  an  atmosphere  of  reek, 

I  hear  a  wheel  thrum  i'  the  neuk, 

I  hear  it — for  in  vain  I  leuk. — 

The  red  peat  gleams,  a  fiery  kernel, 

Enhusked  by  a  fog  infernal  : 

Here,  for  my  wonted  rhyming  raptures, 

I  sit  and  count  my  sins  by  chapters  ; 

For  life  and  spunk  like  ither  Christians, 

I'm  dwindled  down  to  mere  existence, 

Wi'  nae  converse  but  Gallowa'  bodies, 

Wi'  nae  kend  face  but  Jenny  Geddes.^ 

Jenny,  my  Pegasean  pride  ! 

Dowie  she  saunters  down  Nithside, 

And  ay  a  westlin  leuk  she  throws. 

While  tears  hap  o'er  her  auld  brown  nose ! 

"Was  it  for  this,  wi'  canny  care. 

Thou  bure  the  bard  through  many  a  shire  ? 

At  howes  or  hillocks  never  stumbled, 

And  late  or  early  never  grumbled  ? — 

0  had  I  power  like  inclination, 

I'd  heeze  thee  up  a  constellation. 

To  canter  with  the  Sagitarre, 

Or  loup  the  ecliptic  like  a  bar ; 

Or  turn  the  pole  like  any  arrow ; 

Or,  when  auld  Phoebus  bids  good-morrow, 

Down  the  zodiac  urge  the  race. 

And  cast  dirt  on  his  godship's  face ; 

For  I  could  lay  my  bread  and  kail 

He'd  ne'er  cast  saut  upo*  thy  tail. — 

Wi'  a'  this  care  and  a'  this  grief, 

And  sma,'  sma'  prospect  of  relief, 

And  nought  but  peat  reek  i'  my  head, 

How  can  I  write  what  ye  can  read  ? — 

Tarbolton,  twenty-fourth  o'  June, 

Ye'U  fie  J  me  in  a  better  tune ; 


3  St.  Anthony's  Chapel. 
*His  mare. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


15 


But  till  we  meet  and  weet  our  whistle, 
Tak  this  excuse  for  nae  epistle. 

EOBEBT    BUBNS. 


XCVI. 
LINES 

INTENDED  TO   BE  WRITTEN  UNDER 

A  NOBLE   EARL'S   PICTURE. 

[Burns  placed  the  portraits  of  Dr.  Blacklock  and  the 
Earl  of  Glencairn,  over  his  parlour  chimney-piece  at 
Ell  island  :  beneath  the  head  of  the  latter  he  wrote  some 
verses,  which  he  sent  to  the  Earl,  and  requested  leave  to 
make  public.  This  seems  to  have  been  refused;  and,  as 
the  verses  were  lost  for  years,  it  was  believed  they  were 
destroyed  :  a  rough  copy,  however,  is  preserved,  and  is 
now  in  the  safe  keeping  of  the  Earl's  name-son,  Major 
James  Glencairn  Burns.  James  Cunningham,  Earl  of 
Glencairn,  died  20th  January,  1791,  aged  42  years:  he  was 
Bucceeded  by  his  only  and  childless  brother,  with  whom 
This  ancient  race  was  closed.] 

Whose  is  that  noble  dauntless  brow  ? 

And  whose  that  eye  of  fire? 
And  whose  that  generous  princely  mien, 

E'en  rooted  foes  admire  ? 
.    Stranger  !  to  justly  show  that  brow. 

And  mark  that  eye  of  fire, 
Would  take  His  hand,  whose  vernal  tints 

His  other  w<arks  inspire. 

Bright  as  a  cloudless  summer  sun, 

With  stately  port  he  moves ; 
His  guardian  seraph  eyes  with  awe 

The  noble  ward  he  loves — 
Among  th'  illustrious  Scottish  sons 

That  chief  thou  may'st  discern ; 
Mark  Scotia's  fond  returning  eye — 

It  dwells  upon  Glencairn. 


XCVII. 

ELEGY 
ON  THE  YEAR  1788 
SKETCH. 


[This  Pofrhi  was  first  printed  by  Stewart,  in  1801.  The 
Doet  loved  to  indulge  in  such  sarcastic  sallies:  it  is  full 
»f  character,  and  rellects  a  distinct  image  of  those  yeasty 
vi'.mes.] 

Fou  Lords  or  Kings  I  dinna  mourn, 
E'en  let  them  die — for  that  they're  born, 


But  oh !  pro  iigious  to  reflec' ! 
A  Towmont,  Sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck  I 
0  Eighty-eight,  in  thy  sma'  space 
What  dire  events  ha'e  taken  place  ! 
Of  what  enjoyments  thou  hast  reft  us ! 
In  what  a  pickle  thou  hast  left  us  I 

The  Spanish  empire's  tint  a-head. 
An'  my  auld  teethless  Bawtie's  dead ; 
The  tulzie's  sair  'tween  Pitt  and  Fox, 
And  our  guid  wife's  wee  birdie  cocks ; 
The  tane  is  game,  a  bluidie  devil. 
But  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil : 
The  tither's  something  dour  o'  treadin', 
But  better  stufi"  ne'er  claw'd  a  midden — 
Ye  ministers,  come  mount  the  pu'pit, 
An'  cry  till  ye  be  hearse  an'  roupet, 
For  Eighty-eight  he  wish'd  you  weel, 
An'  gied  you  a'  baith  gear  an'  meal ; 
E'en  mony  a  plack,  and  mony  a  peck, 
Ye  ken  yoursels,  for  little  feck ! 

Ye  bonnie  lasses,  dight  your  e'en, 
For  some  o'  you  ha'e  tint  a  frien' ; 
In  Eighty-eight,  ye  ken,  was  ta'en, 
What  ye'll  ne'er  ha'e  to  gie  again. 

Observe  the  very  nowt  an'  sheep, 

How  dowf  and  dowie  now  they  creep ; 

Nay,  even  the  yirth  itsel'  does  cry, 

For  Embro'  wells  are  grutten  dry. 

0  Eighty- nine,  thou's  but  a  bairn, 

An'  no  owre  auld,  I  hope,  to  learn ! 

Thou  beardless  boy,  I  pray  tak'  care. 

Thou  now  has  got  thy  daddy's  chair, 

Nae  hand-cuflF'd,  mizl'd,  hap-shackl'd  Regen^ 

But,  like  himsel'  a  ftill  free  agent. 

Be  sure  ye  follow  out  the  plan 

Nae  waur  than  he  did,  honest  man  1 

As  muckle  better  as  ye  can. 

January  1,  1789. 


XCVIII. 
ADDRESS   TO  THE    TOOTHACHE. 

["  I  had  intended,"  snys  Bums  to  Creech,  30th  M»y, 
1789,  "  to  have  troubled  you  with  a  long  letter,  hut  at 
present  the  delightful  sensation  of  an  omnipotent  tooth- 
ache so  engrosses  all  my  inner  man,  ns  to  put  it  out  of  my 
power  even  to  write  nonsen.'se."  The  poetic  Address  to  th« 
To<-ithache  seems  to  belong  to  this  period.] 

Mr  curse  upon  thy  venom'd  stang. 
That  shoots  my  tortur'd  gums  alahg; 


156 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Aai  thro'  my  lugs  gies  mony  a  twang, 

Wi'  gnawing  vengeance ; 

Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  bitter  pang, 

Like  racking  engines ! 

When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  cholic  squeezes ; 
Our  neighbours'  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi'  pitying  moan ; 
But  thee — thou  hell  o'  a'  diseases, 

Ay  mocks  our  groan ! 

Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle ! 
I  kick  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  mickle, 
As  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle, 

To  see  me  loup ; 
While,  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle 

Were  in  their  doup. 

0'  a'  the  num'rous  human  dools, 

111  har'sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools, 

Or  worthy  friends  rak'd  i'  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see ! 
The  tricks  o'  knaves,  or  fash  o'  fools. 

Thou  bears't  the  gree. 

Where'er  that  place  be  priests  ca'  hell, 
Whence  a'  the  tones  o'  mis'ry  yell, 
And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell. 

In  dreadfu'  raw, 
Thou,  Toothache,  surely  bear'st  the  bell 

Amang  them  a' ! 

0  thou  grim  mischief-making  chiel, 
That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeel, 
'Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a  reel 

In  gore  a  shoe-thick  ! — 
Gie'  a'  the  faes  o'  Scotland's  weal 

A  towmond's  Toothache. 


XCIX. 
ODE 

SACBED    TO    THE    MEMORY    OP 

MRS.   OSWALD, 

OF  AUCHENCaUIVE. 

[Tlie  origin  of  this  harsh  effusion  shows  under  what 
feelings  Burns  sometimes  wrote.  He  was,  he  says,  on 
UiS  way  to  Ayrshire,  one  stormy  day  in  January,  and  had 
«iade  himself  comfortable,  in  spite  of  the  snow-drift,  over 
a  smoking  bowl,  at  an  inn  at  the  Sanquhar,  when  in 
Wheeled  the  whole  funeral  pageantry  of  Mrs.  Oswald. 


He  was  obliged  to  mount  his  horse  and  ride  for  qnarteri 
to  New  Cumnock,  where,  over  a  good  fire,  he  penned,  in 
his  very  ungallant  indignation,  the  Ode  to  the  lady's  me- 
mory.   He  lived  to  think  better  of  the  name.] 

Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark, 
Hangman  of  creation,  mark ! 
Who  in  widow-weeds  appears. 
Laden  with  unhonoured  years. 
Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse, 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  ? 

STROPHE. 

View  the  wither'd  beldam's  face — 

Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace 

Aught  of  Humanity's  sweet  melting  grace  ? 

Note  that  eye,  'tis  rheum  o'erflows, 

Pity's  flood  there  never  rose. 

See  these  hands,  ne'er  stretch'd  to  save, 

Hands  that  took — but  never  gave. 

Keeper  of  Mammon's  iron  chest, 

Lo,  there  she  goes,  unpitied  and  unblest 

She  goes,  but  not  to  realms  of  everlasting  rest! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer  of  armies,  lift  thine  eyes, 

(Awhile  forbear,  ye  tort' ring  fiends ;) 

Seest  thou  whose  step,  unwilling  hither  bends ! 

No  fallen  angel,  hurl'd  from  upper  skies ; 

'Tis  thy  trusty  quondam  mate, 

Doom'd  to  share  thy  fiery  fate, 

She,  tardy,  hell-ward  plies. 


And  are  they  of  no  more  avail, 

Ten  thousand  glitt'ring  pounds  a-year  ? 

In  other  worlds  can  Mammon  fail. 

Omnipotent  as  he  is  here  ? 

0,  bitter  mock'ry  of  the  pompous  bier. 

While  down  the  wretched  vital  part  is  driv'n ! 

The  cave-lodg'd  beggar,  with  a  conscience  clear, 

Expires  in  rags,  unknown,  and  goes  to  Heav'n. 


fragment'  inscribed 

TO   THERIGHTHON.   C.   J.    FOX. 

[It  was  late  in  life  before  Burns  began  to  think  very 
highly  of  Fox:  he  had  hitherto  spoken  of  liim  rather  aa 
a  rattler  of  dice,  and  a  frequenter  of  soft  company,  thaa 
as  a  statesman.    As  his  hopes  from  the  Tories  vanished 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


157 


be  begnn  to  tliink  of  the  "Whigs :  the  first  did  nothing, 
and  tlie  litter  held  out  hopes;  and  as  hope,  he  s:iid,  was 
the  oord'-il  of  the  huinun  heart,  he  continued  to  hope  on.] 

How  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite ; 
How  virtue  and  vice  blend  their  black  and  their 

white ; 
How  genius,  th'  illustrious  father  of  fiction, 
Confounds   rule    and    law,   reconciles    contra- 
diction— 
I  sing :  if  these  mortals,  the  critics,  should  bustle, 
I  care  not,  not  I — let  the  critics  go  whistle  ! 

But  now  for  a  patron,  whose  name  and  whose 

glory 
At  once  may  illustrate  and  honour  my  story. 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits ; 
Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem  mere 

lucky  hits  ; 
With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment  so 

strong, 
No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went  far  wrong ; 
With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright. 
No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went  quite 

right  ;— 
A  sorry,  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  muses, 
For  using  thy  name  oflTers  fifty  excuses. 

Good  L — d,  what  is  man?  for  as  simple  he 

looks. 
Do  but  try  to  develope  his  hooks  and  his  crooks ; 
With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his  good  and 

his  evil, 
All  in  all  he's  a  problem  must  puzzle  the  devil. 

Un  his  one  ruling  passion  Sir  Pope  hugely  la- 
bours, 

That,  like  th'  old  Hebrew  walking-switch,  eats 
up  its  neighbours ; 

Mankind  are  his  show -box — a  friend,  would  you 
know  him  ? 

Pull  the  string,  ruling  passion  the  picture  will 
show  him. 

What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a  system, 

One  trifling  particular,  truth,  should  have  miss'd 
him ; 

For  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions. 

Mankind  is  a  science  defies  definitions. 

Some  sort  all  our  qualities  each  to  its  tribe. 
And  think  human  nature  they  truly  describe  ; 
Have  you  found  this,  or  t'other?  there's  more 

in  the  wind, 
fLa  by  one  drunken  fellow  his  comrades  you'll 

find. 


But  such  is  the  flaw,  or  the  depth  of  the  plan. 
In  the  make  of  that  wonderful  creature,  call'd 

man, 
No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they  claim. 
Nor  even  two  difi'erent  shades  of  the  same. 
Though  like  as  was  ever  twin  brother  to  brother. 
Possessing  the  one  shall  imply  you've  the  other. 

But  truce  with  abstraction,  and  truce  with  a 

muse. 
Whose  rhymes  you'll  perhaps,  Sir,  ne'er  deign 

to  peruse: 
Will  you  leave  your  justings,  your  jars,  and  your 

quarrels. 
Contending  with  Billy  for  proud-nodding  laurels. 
My  much-honour'd  Patron,  believe  your  poor 

poet. 
Your  courage  much  more  than  your  prudencp 

you  show  it ; 
In  vain  with  Squire  Billy,  forlaurelsyou  struggle, 
He'll  have  them  by  fair  trade,  if  not,  he  will 

smuggle ; 
Not  cabinets  even  of  kings  would  conceal  'em. 
He'd  up  the  back-stairs,  and  by  G —  he  would 

steal  'em. 
Then  feats  like  Squire  Billy's  you  ne'er  can 

achieve  'em ; 
It  is  not,  outdo  him,  the  task  is,  out-thieve  him. 


CI. 


ON   SEEINQ 

A  WOUNDED   HARE 

LIMP    BY   ME, 
WHICH  A  FELLOW  HAD  JXTST    SHOT. 

[This  Poem  is  founaeo  on  fact.  A  young  man  of  the 
name  of  Thomson  told  me— qnite  unconscious  of  the 
existence  of  the  Poem— that  while  Burns  lived  at  Ellis- 
laud— he  shot  at  and  hurt  a  hare,  which  in  the  twilight 
was  feeding  on  his  father's  wheat-bread.  The  poet,  ja 
observing  the  hare  come  bleeding  past  him,  "was  .a 
great  wratli,"  said  Thomson,  "and  cursed  me,  anJ  5a»l 
little  hindered  him  from  throwing  me  into  the  NitL  ;  izd 
he  was  able  enough  to  do  it.  though  I  was  both  young 
and  strong."  The  boor  of  Nithside  did  not  use  the  hare 
worse  than  the  critical  Dr.  Gregory,  of  Edinburgh,  used 
the  Poem:  when  Bums  read  liis  remarks  he  said,  "Gr«». 
gory  is  a  good  man,  but  he  crucifies  me  !"] 

Inhuman  man !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art, 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye ; 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart. 


158                                  THE    POETICAL   WORKS 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field! 

But  what  dy'e  think,  my  trusty  fier, 

The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains: 

I'm  turn'd  a  gauger — Peace  be  here  I 

No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  verdant 

Parnassian  queans,  I  fear,  I  fear. 

plains 

Ye'll  now  disdain  me ! 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a  year 

Will  little  gain  me. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted 

rest, 

Ye  glaiket,  gleesome,  dainty  damies, 

No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed ! 

Wha,  by  Castalia's  wimplin'  streamies, 

The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy  head, 

Lowp,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbics, 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest. 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken. 

That  Strang  necessity  supreme  is 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 

'Mang  sons  o'  men. 

The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn ; 

I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies. 

And  curse  the  ruffian's  aim,  and  mourn  thy  hap- 

They maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o'  duddies  j 

less  fate. 

Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud  is— 

I  need  na  vaunt, 

But  I'll  sned  besoms — thraw  saugh  woodiea, 
Before  they  want. 

CII. 

Lord  help  me  thro'  this  warld  o'  care  I 

I'm  weary  sick  o't  late  and  air  ! 

TO  DR.   BLACKLOCK, 

Not  but  I  hae  a  richer  share 

IN   ANSWER    TO  A   LETTER. 

Than  mony  ithers; 

[This  blind  scholar,  though  an  indifferent  Poet,  was  an 

But  why  should  ae  man  better  fare, 

excellent  and  generous  man :   he  was  foremost  of  the 

And  a'  men  brithers  ? 

Edinburgh  literati  to  admire  the  Poems  of  Burns,  pro- 

mote their  fame,  and  advise  that  the  author,  instead  of 

Come,  firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van. 

ghipping  himself  for  Jamaica,  should  come  to  Edinburgh 
»nd  publish  a  new  edition.  The  poet  reverenced  the  nam© 

Thou  stalk  o'  carl-hemp  in  man ! 

»f  Thomas  Blacklock  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life. — Henry 

And  let  us  mind,  faint-heart  ne'er  wan 

Hackenzie,  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  and  the  Blind  Bard, 

A  lady  fair : 

were  his  three  favourites.] 

Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 

Ellisland,  2\st  Oct  1789. 

Will  whyles  do  mair. 

"Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie ! 

And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie  ? 

But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme, 

I  kenn'd  it  still  your  wee  bit  jauntie 

(I'm  scant  o'  verse,  and  scant  o'  time,) 

Wad  bring  ye  to  : 

To  make  a  happy  fire-side  clime 

Lord  send  you  ay  as  weel's  I  want  ye. 

To  weans  and  wife, 

And  then  ye'll  do. 

That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life. 

The  ill-thief  blaw  the  heron  south ! 

And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth  ! 

My  compliments  to  sister  Beckie ; 

He  tauld  mysel'  by  word  o'  mouth, 

And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky, 

He'd  tak  my  letter : 

I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chuckle. 

I  lippen'd  to  the  chief  in  trouth. 

As  e'er  tread  clay ! 

And  bade  nae  better. 

And  gratefully,  my  guid  auld  cockie, 

But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron, 
Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one, 

I'm  yours  for  ay, 

Robert  Bbbhs, 

To  ware  his  theologic  care  on. 

And  holy  study ; 

And  tir'd  o'  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on 

E'en  tried  the  body. 

OF   EGBERT   BURNS. 


159 


cm. 
DELIA. 

AN   ODE. 

[These  verses  were  first  printed  in  the  Star  newspa- 
per, ir.  Mny,  1789.  It  is  said  that  one  day  a  friend  read 
to  the  poet  some  verses  from  the  Star,  composed  on  the 
pattern  of  Pope's  Song,  by  a  Person  of  Quality.  "  These 
liaes  are  beyond  you,"  he  added:  "  the  muse  of  Kyle 
cannot  match  the  muse  of  London."  Burns  mused  a 
moment,  and  then  recited  *'  Delia,  an  Ode."] 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  day, 
Fair  the  tints  of  op'ning  rose, 
But  fairer  still  my  Delia  dawns, 
More  lovely  far  her  beauty  blows. 

Sweet  the  lark's  wild-warbled  lay, 
Sweet  the  tinkling  rill  to  hear ; 
But,  Delia,  more  delightful  still 
Steal  thine  accents  on  mine  ear. 

The  flow'r-enamoured  busy  bee 
The  rosy  banquet  loves  to  sip  ; 
Sweet  the  streamlet's  limpid  lapse 
To  the  sun-brown'd  Arab's  lip  ; — 

But,  Delia,  on  thy  balmy  lips 
Let  me,  no  vagrant  insect,  rove ! 
0,  let  me  steal  one  liquid  kiss ! 
For,  oh !  my  soul  is  parch' d  with  love. 


crv. 

TO  JOHN   M'MURDO,  ESQ. 

[John  M'Murdo,  Esq.,  one  of  the  chamberlains  of  the 
D-ike  of  Queensberry,  lived  at  Drumlanrig:  he  was  a 
high-minded,  warm-hearted  man,  and  much  the  friend 
of  the  poet.  These  lines  accompanied  a  jresent  of  books: 
others  were  added  soon  afterwards  on  a  pane  of  glass  in 
DruTilanrig  castle. 

«<  Blest  be  M'Murdo  to  his  latest  day  ! 
No  envious  cloud  o'ercast  his  evening  ray; 
No  wrinkle  furrowed  by  the  hand  of  care, 
Nor  ever  sorrow  add  one  silver  hair  I 
O  may  no  kion  the  father's  honour  stain, 
Nor  ever  daughter  give  the  mother  pain." 
How  fully  the  poet's  wishes  were  fulfilled  need  not  b« 
u<ld  to  any  one  acquainted  with  the  family.] 

0,  COULD  I  give  thee  India's  wealth, 

As  I  this  trifle  send  I 
Because  thy  joy  in  both  would  be 

To  share  them  with  a  friend. 


But  golden  sands  did  never  grace 

The  Heliconian  stream ; 
Then  take  what  gold  could  never  buy- 

An  honest  Bard's  esteem. 


PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN    AT   THE    THEATRE,  DUMFRIES, 

1  Jan.  1790. 

[This  prologue  was  written  in  December,  1789,  for 
Mr.  Sutherland,  who  recited  it  with  applause  in  the 
little  theatre  of  Dumfries,  on  new-year's  night.  Sir 
Harris  Nicolas,  however,  has  given  to  Ellisland  tha 
benefit  of  a  tlieatre  !  and  to  Burns  the  whole  barony  of 
Dalswinton  for  a  farm  !] 

No  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon  great  city 
That  queens  it  o'er  our  taste — the  more's  the 

pity: 
Tho',  by-the-by,  abroad  why  will  you  roam  ? 
Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at  home : 
But  not  for  panegyric  I  appear, 
I  come  to  wish  you  all  a  good  new  year ! 
Old  Father  Time  deputes  me  here  before  ye. 
Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple  story  : 
The  sage  grave  ancient  cough'd,  and  bade  me 

say, 
"You're  one  year  older  this  important  day." 
If  wiser  too — he  hinted  some  suggestion, 
But  'twould  be  rude,  you  know,  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion ; 
And  with  a  would-be  roguish  leer  and  wink. 
He   bade   me  on   you  press  this   one   word — 
"think!" 

Ye  sprightly  youths,  quite  flush'd  with  hope 

and  spirit, 
Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of  merit, 
To  you  the  dotard  has  a  deal  to  say. 
In  his  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way ; 
He  bids  you  mind,  amid  your  thoughtless  rattle, 
That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the  battle : 
That  tho'  some  by  the  skirt  may  try  to  snatclj 

him, 
Yet  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch  him ; 
That  whether  doing,  sufFering,  or  forbearing. 
You  may  dtf  miracles  by  persevering. 

Last,  tho'  not  least  in  love,  ye  youthful  fair, 
Angelic  forms,  high  Heaven's  peculiar  care  ! 


160 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


To  you  old  Bald-pate  smooths  his  wrinkled  brow, 
And   humbly  begs  you'll  mind    the   important 

NOW  ! 

To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your  leave, 
And  offers  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive. 

For  our  sincere,  tho'  haply  weak  endeavours, 
With  grateful  pride  we  own  your  many  favours. 
And  liowsoe'er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal  it, 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  truly  feel  it. 


CVI. 

SCOTS  PROLOGUE, 

FOR  MR.  Sutherland's  benefit  night, 

DUMFRIES. 

[Burns  did  not  shine  in  prologues:  he  produced  some 
vigorous  lines,  but  they  did  not  come  in  harmony  from 
nis  tongue,  like  the  songs  in  which  he  recorded  the  love- 
liness r)f  the  dames  of  Caledonia.  Sutlierland  was 
aiannger  of  the  the-itre,  and  a  writer  of  rhymes — Burns 
eaid  liis  players  were  a  very  decent  set:  he  had  seen 
them  an  evening  or  two.] 

What  needs  this  din  about  the  town  o'  Lon'on, 
How  this  new  play  an'  that  new  sang  is  comin'  ? 
Why  is  outlandish  stuff  sae  meikle  courted  ? 
Does   nonsense  mend   like  whiskey,  when  im- 
ported ? 
Is  there  nae  poet,  burning  keen  for  fame. 
Will  try  to  gie  us  songs  and  plays  at  hame  ? 
For  comedy  abroad  he  need  nae  toil, 
A  fool  and  knave  are  plants  of  every  soil ; 
Nor  need  he  hunt  as  far  as  Rome  and  Greece 
To  gather  matter  for  a  serious  piece  ; 
There's  themes  enough  in  Caledonian  story, 
Would  show  the  tragic  muse  in  a'  her  glory. 

Is  there  no  daring  bard  will  rise,  and  tell 
How  glorious  Wallace  stood,  how  hapless  fell  ? 
Where  are  the  muses  fled  that  could  produce 
A  drama  worthy  o'  the  name  o'  Bruce ; 
How  here,  even  here,  he  first  unsheath'd  the 

sword, 
'Gainst  mighty  England  and  her  guilty  lord. 
And  after  mony  a  bloody,  deathless  doing, 
Wrench'd  his  dear  country  from  the  jaws  of  ruin? 
0  for  a  Shakspeare  or  an  Otway  scene. 
To  draw  the  lovely,  hapless  Scottish  Queen! 
V^ain  all  th'  omnipotence  of  female  charms 
<3ainst    headlong,    ruthless,   mad    Rebellion's 

arms. 


She  fell,  but  fell  with  spirit  truly  Roman, 

To  glut  the  vengeance  of  a  rival  Avoman ; 

A  woman — tho'  the  phrase  may  seem  uncivil— 

As  able  and  as  cruel  as  the  Devil ! 

One  Douglas  lives  in  Home's  immortal  page, 

But  Douglases  were  heroes  every  age : 

And  tho'  your  fathers,  prodigal  of  life, 

A  Douglas  follow'd  to  the  martial  strife. 

Perhaps  if  bowls  row  right,  and  right  succeeds, 

Ye  yet  may  follow  where  a  Douglas  leads  ! 

As  yeliae  generous  done,  if  a'  the  land 
Would  take  the  muses'  servants  by  the  hand ; 
Not  only  hear,  but  patronize,  befriend  them. 
And  where  ye  justly  can  commend,  commend 

them; 
And  aiblins  when  they  winna  stand  the  test, 
Wink  hard,  and  say  the  folks  hae  done  their  best! 
Would  a'  the  land  do  this,  then  I'll  be  caution 
Ye'll  soon  hae  poets  o'  the  Scottish  nation, 
Will  gar  fame  blaw  until  her  trumpet  crack, 
And  warsle  time,  an'  lay  him  on  his  back  ! 
For  us  and  for  our  stage  should  ony  spier, 
"  Whase  aught  thae  chiels  maks  a'  this  bustle 

here  !" 
My  best  leg  foremost,  I'll  set  up  my  brow. 
We  have  the  honour  to  belong  to  you  ! 
We're  your  ain  bairns,  e'en  guide  us  as  ye  like. 
But  like  good  mithers,  shore  before  ye  strike.^ 
And  gratefu'  still  I  hope  ye'll  ever  find  us, 
For  a'  the  patronage  and  meikle  kindness 
We've  got  frae  a'  professions,  sets,  and  ranks  : 
God  help  us!    we're  but   poor — ye'se  get  but 

thanks. 


CVII. 


NEW  YEAR'S   DAT. 

to    MRS.  DUNLOP. 

[This  is  a  picture  of  the  Dunlop  family :  it  was  printea 
from  a  hasty  sketch,  which  tlie  poet  called  extempore 
The  major  whom  it  mentions,  was  General  Andrew 
Dunlop,  who  died  in  1804  :  Rachel  Dunlop  was  after- 
wards married  to  Robert  Glasgow,  Esq.  Another  of  the 
Dunlops  served  with  distinction  in  India,  where  he  rose 
to  the  rank  of  General.  They  were  a  gallant  race,  and 
all  distinguished.] 

This  day,  Time  winds  th'  exhausted  chain, 
To  run  the  twelvemonth's  length  again : 


OF  EGBERT   BURNS. 


161 


I  see  the  old,  bald-pated  fellow, 
With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 
Adjust  the  unirapair'd  machine, 
To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine.     • 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir, 
In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer ; 
Deaf  as  my  friend,  he  sees  them  press. 
Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 
Will  you  (the  Major's  with  the  hounds, 
The  happy  tenants  share  his  rounds ; 
Coila's  fair  Rachel's  care  to-day, 
And  blooming  Keith's  engaged  with  Gray) 
From  housewife  cares  a  minute  borrow — 
— That  grandchild's  cap  will  do  to-morrow- 
And  join  with  me  a  moralizing. 
This  day's  propitious  to  be  wise  in. 

First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver  ? 
"  Another  year  is  gone  for  ever." 
And  what  is  this  day's  strong  suggestion  ? 
"  The  passing  moment's  all  we  rest  on!" 
Rest  on — for  what  ?  what  do  we  here? 
Or  why  regard  the  passing  year  ? 
Will  time,  amus'd  with  proverb'd  lore, 
Add  to  our  date  one  minute  more  ? 
A  few  days  may — a  few  years  must — 
Repose  us  in  the  silent  dust. 
Then  is  it  wise  to  damp  our  bliss  ? 
Yes — all  such  reasonings  are  amiss! 
The  voice  of  nature  loudly  cries. 
And  many  a  message  from  the  skies, 
That  something  in  us  never  dies  : 
That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state. 
Hang  matters  of  eternal  weight : 
That  future  life  in  worlds  unknown 
Must  take  its  hue  from  this  alone ; 
Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright. 
Or  dark  as  misery's  woeful  night. — 

Since  then,  my  honour'd,  first  of  friends, 
On  this  poor  being  all  depends, 
Let  us  th'  important  now  employ, 
And  live  as  those  who  never  die. — 

Tho'  you,  with  days  and  honours  crown'd, 
Witness  that  filial  circle  round, 
(A  sight,  life's  sorrows  to  repulse, 
A  sight,  pale  envy  to  convulse,) 
Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard ; 
Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


CVIII. 
TO  A  GENTLEMAN 

WHO   HAD    SENT    HIM  A   NKW8PAPEB,  AND    OFFERED   TO 
CONTINUE   IT    FBEE   OF    EXPENSE. 

-  [These  sarcastic  lines  contain  a  too  true  picture  of  th« 
times  in  which  they  were  written.  Though  great  chunret 
have  taken  place  in  court  and  camp,  yet  Austri:i,  Russia 
and  Prussia  keep  the  tack  of  Polnnd:  nobody  eays  a 
■word  of  Denmark:  emasculated  Italy  is  still  singicg 
opera  girls  are  still  dancing  ;  but  Chatham  Will,  glaikit 
Charlie,  Daddie  Burke,  Royal  George,  and  Geordi* 
Wales,  have  all  passed  to  their  account.] 

•Kind  Sir,  I've  read  your  paper  through, 

And,  faith,  to  me  'twas  really  new  ! 

How  guess'd  ye.  Sir,  what  maist  I  wanted  ? 

This  mony  a  day  I've  grain'd  and  gaunted, 

To  ken  what  French  mischief  was  brewin' ; 

Or  what  the  drumlie  Dutch  were  doin' ; 

That  vile  doup-skelper.  Emperor  Joseph, 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off; 

Or  how  the  collieshangie  works 

Atween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks; 

Or  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt, 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  Twalt: 

If  Denmark,  any  body  spak  o't ; 

Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack  o't ; 

How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were  hingin'J 

How  libbet  Italy  was  singin' ; 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss 

Were  sayin'  or  takin'  aught  amiss : 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame. 

In  Britain's  court  kept  up  the  game : 

How  royal  George,  the  Lord  leuk  o'er  him  I 

Was  managing  St.  Stephen's  quorum ; 

If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  livin' ; 

Or  glaikit  Charlie  got  his  nieve  in ; 

How  daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin', 

If  Warren  Hastings'  neck  was  yeukin  ; 

How  cesses,  stents,  and  fees  were  rax'd, 

Or  if  bare  a — s  yet  were  tax'd  ; 

The  news  o'  princes,  dukes,  and  earls. 

Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  opera  girls ; 

If  that  daft  buckie,  Geordie  Wales, 

Was  threshin'  still  at  hizzies'  tails ; 

Or  if  he  was  grown  oughtlins  douser, 

And  no  a  perfect  kintra  cooser. — 

A'  this  and  mair  I  never  heard  of; 

And  but  for  you  I  might  despair'd  of. 

So,  gratefu',  back  your  news  I  send  you, 

And  pray,  a'  guid  things  may  attend  you ! 

Ellisland,  Monday  morning,  1790. 


162 


THE    POETICAL   \VOKKfc5 


cix. 


THE  KIRK'S  ALARM;' 


[fiest  veesion.] 

[The  history  of  this  Poem  is  curious.  M'Gill,  one  of 
the  ministers  of  Ayr,  long  suspected  of  entertaining 
heterodox  opinions  concerning  original  sin  und  the  Tri- 
nity, published  "  A  Practical  Essay  on  the  Death  of 
Jesus  Christ,"  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the  more  rigid 
portion  of  his  brethren,  inclined  both  to  Arianism  and 
Socinianism.  This  essay  was  denounced  as  heretical,  by 
a  minister  of  the  name  of  Peebles,  in  a  sermon  preached 
November  5th,  1788,  and  ail  the  west  country  was  in  a 
flame.  The  subject  was  brought  before  the  Synod,  and 
was  warmly  debated  till  M'Gill  expressed  his  regret  for 
the  disquiet  he  had  occasioned,  explained  away  or  apo- 
logized for  the  challenged  passages  in  his  Essay,  and  de- 
clared his  adherence  to  the  standard  doctrines  of  his 
mother  church.  Burns  was  prevailed  upon  to  bring  his 
satire  to  the  aid  of  M'Gill,  but  he  appears  to  have  done 
so  with  reluctance.] 

Orthodox,  orthodox, 
Wha  believe  in  John  Knox, 

Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience : 
There's  a  heretic  blast 
Has  been  blawn  in  the  wast, 

That  what  is  no  sense  must  be  nonsense. 

Dr.  Mac,2  Dr.  Mac, 

You  should  stretch  on  a  rack, 
To  strike  evil  doers  wi'  terror ; 

To  join  faith  and  sense 

Upon  ony  pretence. 
Is  heretic,  damnable  error. 

Town  of  Ayr,  town  of  Ayr, 

It  was  mad.  I  declare. 
To  meddle  wi'  mischief  a-brewing ; 

Provost  John  3  is  still  deaf 

To  the  church's  relief, 
And  orator  Bob  *  is  its  ruin. 

D'rymple  mild,5  D'rymple  mild, 

Thro'  your  heart's  like  a  child, 
And  your  life  like  the  new  driven  snaw, 

Yet  that  winna  save  ye, 

Auld  Satan  must  hav  ye, 
For  preaching  that  three's  ane  an'  twa. 

'  This  Poem  was  written  a  short  time  after  the  pub- 
.r.cation  of  M'Gill's  Essay. 
2  Dr.  M'Gill.  3  John  Ballantyne. 

*  Robert  Aiken.  6  Dr.  Dalrymple. 

6  Mr.  Russell.  7  Mr.  M'Kinlay. 


Rumble  John,^  Rumble  John, 

Mount  the  steps  wi'  a  groan, 
Cry  the  book  is  wi'  heresy  cramm'd; 

Then  lug  out  your  ladle, 

Deal  brimstone  like  adle, 
And  roar  every  note  of  the  damn'd. 

Simper  James,'  Simper  James, 
Leave  the  fair  Killie  dames, 

There's  a  holier  chase  in  your  view ; 
I'll  lay  on  your  head 
That  the  pack  ye'll  soon  lead, 

For  puppies  like  you  there's  but  few. 

Singet  Sawney,^  Singet  Sawney, 

Are  ye  herding  the  penny. 
Unconscious  what  evil  await  ? 

Wi'  a  jump,  yell,  and  howl, 

Alarm  every  soul. 
For  the  foul  thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 

Daddy  Auld,'  Daddy  Auld, 

There's  a  tod  in  the  fauld, 
A  tod  meikle  waur  than  the  clerk ; 

Though  ye  can  do  little  skaith, 

Ye'll  be  in  at  the  death, 
And  gif  ye  canna  bite,  ye  may  bark. 

Davie  Bluster,'®  Davie  Bluster, 
If  for  a  saint  ye  do  muster, 

The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits; 
Yet  to  worth  let's  be  just, 
Royal  blood  ye  might  boast, 

If  the  ass  was  the  king  of  the  brutes. 

Jamy  Goose,"  Jamy  Goose, 

Ye  ha'e  made  but  toom  roose, 
In  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant ; 

But  the  Doctor's  your  mark, 

For  the  L — d's  haly  ark  ; 
He  has  cooper'd  and  cawd  a  wrang  pin  in't. 

Poet  Willie,"  Poet  Willie, 

Gie  the  Doctor  a  volley, 
Wi'  your  liberty's  chain  and  your  wit ; 

O'er  Pegasus'  side 

Ye  ne'er  laid  astride, 
Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he  

8  Mr.  Moody,  of  Riccarton. 

9  Mr.  Auld  of  MauchJine, 

10  Mr.  Grant,  of  Ochiltree. 
•1  Mr.  Young,  of  Cumnock. 
12  Mr.  Peebles,  Ayr. 


OF  llOBEKT  BURNS.                                        IQt, 

Andro  Gouk,'  Andro  Gouk, 

ex. 

Ye  may  slander  the  book, 

And  the  book  not  the  waur,  let  me  tell  ye ; 

THE   KIRK'S   ALARM. 

Ye  are  rich  and  look  big, 

-  A  BALLAD. 

But  lay  by  hat  and  wig, 

[second  version.] 

And  ye'll  ha'e  a  calfs  head  o'  sma'  value. 

[This  version  is  from  the  papers  of  Miss  Logan,  o\ 

Afton.    The  origin  of  the  Poem  is  thus  related  to  Gr*^ 

Barr  Steenie,^  Barr  Steenie, 

ham  of  Fintry  by  the  poet  himself:  "  Though  I  dare  say 

you  have  none  of  the  solemn  League  and  Covenant  fire 

What  mean  ye,  what  mean  ye? 

which  shone  so  conspicuous  in  Lord  George  Gordon,  ana 

If  ye'll  meddle  nae  mair  wi'  the  matter, 

the  Kilmarnock  weavers,  yet   I   think  you   must  have 

Ye  may  ha'e  some  pretence 

heard  of  Dr.  M'Gill,  one  of  the  clergymen  of  Ayr,  and 

To  havins  and  sense, 

his  heretical  book,  God   help  him,  poor  man!   Though 

one  of  the  wortliiest,  as  well  as  one  of  the  ablest  of  the 

Wi'  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better. 

whole  priestliood  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  in  every  sense 

of  that  ambiguous  term,  yet  the  poor  doctor  and  his 

Irvine  side,^  Irvine  side, 

numerous  family  are  in  imminent  danger  of  being  thrown 
out  (9th   December,  1790)  to   the   mercy  of  the  wintei 

Wi'  your  turkey-cock  pride, 

winds.    The  enclosed  ballad  on  that  business,  is,  I  con 

Of  manhood  but  sma'  is  your  share, 

fess,  too  local :  but  I  laughed  myself  at  some  conceits  in 

Ye've  the  figure  'tis  true, 

it,  though  I  am  convinced  in  my  conscience  there  are  a 

Even  your  faes  will  allow, 

good  many  heavy  stanzas  in  it  too."    The  Kirk's  Alarm 
was  first  printed  by  Stewart,  in  1801.    Cromek  calls  it, 

And  your  friends  they  dae  grant  you  nae  mair. 

"A  silly  satire,  on  some  worthy  ministers  of  the  gospel, 

in  Ayrshire."] 

Muirland  Jock,*  Muirland  Jock, 

I. 

When  the  L — d  makes  a  rock 

Okthodox,  orthodox, 

To  crush  Common  sense  for  her  sins, 

Who  believe  in  John  Knox, 

If  ill  manners  were  wit. 

Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience — 

There's  no  mortal  so  fit 

There's  a  heretic  blast, 

To  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  ance. 

Has  been  blawn  i'  the  wast. 

That  what  is  not  sense  must  be  nonsense. 

Orthodox, 

Holy  Will,6  Holy  Will, 

That  what  is  not  sense  must  be  nonsense. 

There  was  wit  i'  your  skull. 

When  ye  pilfer'd  the  alms  o'  the  poor ; 

II. 

The  timmer  is  scant. 

Doctor  Mac,  Doctor  Mac, 

When  ye're  ta'en  for  a  saunt, 

Ye  should  stretch  on  a  rack, 

Wha  should  swing  in  a  rape  for  an  hour. 

And  strike  evil  doers  wi'  terror ; 

To  join  faith  and  sense. 

Calvin's  sons,  Calvin's  sons, 

Upon  any  pretence. 

Seize  your  spir'tual  guns. 

Was  heretic  damnable  error, 

Ammunition  you  never  can  need ; 

Doctor  Mao, 

Your  hearts  are  the  stuff, 

Was  heretic  damnable  error. 

Will  be  powther  enough, 

And  your  skulls  are  storehouses  o*  lead. 

III. 

Town  of  Ayr,  town  of  Ayr, 

It  was  rash  I  declare, 

Poet  Bums,  Poet  Bums, 

To  meddle  wi'  mischief  a-brewing ; 

Wi'  your  priest-skelping  turns. 

Provost  John  is  still  deaf, 

Why  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire  ? 

To  the  church's  relief. 

Your  muse  is  a  gipsie, 

And  orator  Bob  is  its  ruin, 

E'en  tho'  she  were  tipsie, 

Town  of  Ayr, 

She  could  ca'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 

And  orator  Bob  is  its  ruin. 

J  Dr.  Andrew  Mitchell,  of  Monkton. 

4  Mr.  John  Shepherd,  Muirkirk. 

2  Mr.  Stephen  Young,  of  Barr. 

6  Holy  Willie,  alias  William  Fisher,  Elder  in  Maaok 

3  Mv  George  Smith,  of  Galston. 

line. 

164                                   THE   POETICAL   WOKKS 

IV. 

And  the  book  nought  the  waur — let  me  tell  you; 

D'rymple  mild,  D'rymple  mild, 

Tho'  ye're  rich  and  look  big, 

Tbo'  your  heart's  like  a  child. 

Yet  lay  by  hat  and  wig. 

And  your  life  like  the  new-driven  snaw, 

And  ye'll  hae  a  calfs-head  o'  sma'  value, 

Yet  that  winna  save  ye, 

Andrew  Gowk, 

Old  Satan  must  have  ye 

And  ye'll  hae  a  calfs-head  o'  sma'  value. 

For  preaching  that  three's  ane  an'  twa, 

D'rymple  mild. 

X. 

For  preaching  that  three's  ane  an'  twa. 

Poet  Willie,  Poet  Willie, 

Gie  the  doctor  a  volley. 

T. 

Wi'  your  "liberty's  chain"  and  your  wit; 

Calvin's  sons,  Calvin's  sons, 

O'er  Pegasus'  side, 

Seize  your  spiritual  guns, 

Ye  ne'er  laid  a  stride 

Ammunition  ye  never  can  need ; 

Ye  only  stood  by  when  he , 

Your  hearts  are  the  stuff, 

Poet  Willie, 

Will  be  powder  enough, 

Ye  only  stood  by  when  he . 

And  your  skulls  are  a  storehouse  of  lead. 

Calvin's  sons, 

XI. 

And  your  skulls  are  a  storehouse  of  lead. 

Barr  Steenie,  Barr  Steenie, 

What  mean  ye?  what  mean  ye? 

VI. 

If  ye'll  meddle  nae  mair  wi'  the  matter, 

Rumble  John,  Rumble  John, 

Ye  may  hae  some  pretence,  man. 

Mount  the  steps  with  a  groan, 

To  havins  and  sense,  man. 

Cry  the  book  is  with  heresy  cramm'd ; 

Wi'  people  that  ken  ye  nae  better, 

Then  lug  out  your  ladle, 

Barr  Steenie, 

Deal  brimstone  like  aidle, 

Wi'  people  that  ken  ye  nae  better. 

And  roar  every  note  o'  the  damn'd. 

Rumble  John, 

XII. 

And  roar  every  note  o'  the  damn'd. 

Jamie  Goose,  Jamie  Goose, 

Ye  hae  made  but  toom  roose. 

VII. 

0'  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant ; 

Simper  James,  Simper  James, 

But  the  doctor's  your  mark, 

Leave  the  fair  Killie  dames. 

For  the  L — d's  holy  ark. 

There's  a  holier  chase  in  your  view ; 

He  has  cooper'd  and  ca'd  a  wrong  pin  in't, 

I'll  lay  on  your  head. 

Jamie  Goose, 

That  the  pack  ye'll  soon  lead, 

He  has  cooper'd  and  ca'd  a  wrong  pin  in't. 

For  puppies  like  you  there's  but  few, 

Simper  James, 

XIII. 

For  puppies  like  you  there's  but  few. 

Davie  Bluster,  Davie  Bluster, 

For  a  saunt  if  ye  muster. 

VIII. 

It's  a  sign  they're  no  nice  o'  recruits. 

Singet  Sawnie,  Singet  Sawnie, 

Yet  to  worth  let's  be  just. 

Are  ye  herding  the  penny, 

Royal  blood  ye  might  boast. 

Unconscbus  what  danger  awaits  ? 

If  the  ass  were  the  king  o'  the  brutes, 

With  a  jump,  yell,  and  howl, 

Davie  Bluster, 

Alarm  every  soul. 

If  the  ass  were  the  king  o'  the  brutes. 

For  Hannibal's  just  at  your  gates. 

Singet  Sawnie, 

XIV. 

For  Hannibal's  just  at  your  gates. 

Muirland  George,  Muirland  George, 

Whom  the  Lord  made  a  scourge. 

IX. 

To  claw  common  sense  for  her  sins , 

Andrew  Gowk,  Andrew  Gowk, 

If  ill  manners  were  wit, 

Ye  may  slander  the  book, 

There's  no  mortal  so  fit, 

OF   ROBEKT   BURNS                                        l^a 

To  confound  the  poor  doctor  at  ance, 

poet,  giving  him  an  account  of  the  unlooked-for  deatk 

Muirland  George, 

of  his  mare,  Peg   Nicholson,   the   successor  of  Jennj 
Geddes.     Slie  had  suffered  both  in  the  employ  of  the  joy- 

To confound  the  poor  doctor  at  ance. 

ous  priest  and  tlie  thouglitless  poet.    Slie  acquired  liei 

name  from  that  frantic  virago  who  attempted  to  aaurdet 

XV. 

George  the  Third.] 

Cessnockside,  Cessnockside, 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare. 

Wi'  your  turkey-cock  pride, 

As  ever  trode  on  airn ; 

0'  manhood  but  sma'  is  your  share ; 

But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith, 

Ye've  the  figure,  it's  true. 

And  past  the  mouth  o'  Cairn. 

Even  our  faes  maun  allow, 

And  your  friends  daurna  say  ye  hae  mair, 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare, 

Cessnockside, 

And  rode  thro'  thick  an'  thin  ; 

And  your  friends  daurna  say  ye  hae  mair. 

But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith, 

And  wanting  even  the  skin. 

XVI. 

Daddie  Auld,  Daddie  Auld, 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare. 

There's  a  tod  i'  the  fauld 

And  ance  she  bore  a  priest ; 

A  tod  meikle  waur  than  the  clerk  ;^ 

But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith, 

Tho'  ye  downa  do  skaith, 

For  Solway  fish  a  feast. 

Ye'll  be  in  at  the  death, 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare. 

And  if  ye  canna  bite  ye  can  bark. 

And  the  priest  he  rode  her  sair ; 

Daddie  Auld, 

And  much  oppress'd  and  bruis'd  she  was ; 

And  if  ye  canna  bite  ye  can  bark. 

XVII. 

Poet  Burns,  Poet  Bums, 

As  priest-rid  cattle  are,  &c.  &c. 

■ 

Wi'  your  priest-skelping  turns, 

CXII. 

Why  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire  ? 

ON 

Tho'  your  Muse  is  a  gipsy, 

Yet  were  she  even  tipsy. 

CAPTAIN  MATTHEW  HENDERSON, 

She  could  ca'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are, 

A    GENTLEMAN    WHO     HELD    THE   PATENT    FOR   HIS     HO- 

Poet Burns, 

NOURS  IMMEDIATELY  FROM  ALMIGHTY  GOD. 

She  could  ca'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 

"  Should  the  poor  be  flattered  ?" 

Shakspeare. 
But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 

POSTSCRIPT. 

For  Matthew's  course  was  bright; 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 

Afton's  Laird,  Afton's  Laird, 

A  matchless  heav'nly  light ! 

When  your  pen  can  be  spar'd, 

[Captain  Matthew  Henderson,  a  gentleman  cf  very 

A  copy  o'  this  I  bequeath, 

agreeable   m:inners  and  great  propriety  of  cha  acter, 

On  the  same  sicker  score 

usually  lived  in  Edinl)urgh,  dined  consTaiiflyat  Fotuue'a 

I  mention'd  before, 

Tavern,  and  was  a  member  of  the  Capilliire  Club  which 

was  composed  of  nit  who  desired  to  be  thought  witty  or 

To  that  trusty  auld  worthy  Clackleith, 

joyous :  he  died  in  1789  :  Burns,  in  a  note  to  the  Poeu, 

Afton's  Laird, 

says,  "  I  loved  tlie  mnn  much,  and  have  not  flattered  hit 

To  that  trusty  auld  worthy  Clackleith. 

memory."    Henderson  seems  indeed  to  have  been  uni- 
versally liked.     "  In  our  travelling   party,»   says   Sir 

_ 

James  Campbell,  of  ArdkingltiBs,  '-was  Matthew  Hen- 
derson, then  (1759)  ind  afterwards  well  known  and  much 

esteemed  in  the  town  of  Edinlmrgh ;  at  that  time  an  of- 

CXI. 

ficer  in  the  twenty-fifth  regimentof  foot,  and  like  myself 

on  his  way  to  jom  the  army  ;  smd  I  nriy  say  with  truth, 

PEG  NICHOLSON. 

that  in  the  course  of  a  long  life  I  have  never  known  a 

more  estimable  character,  tlian  Matthew  Henderson.'' 

These  har'j  verses  nre  to  he  found  in  a  lettc?  ad- 

Memoirs of  Campbell,  of  Ardkinglass,  p.  17.] 

dressee:  to  Nicol.  of  the  High  School  of  i^inburgh,  ^-^  tlie 

' 

0  Death  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody ! 
ane  m«ikle  devil  wi'  a  woodio 

1  Gavl^  Hamilton. 

166                                  THE    POETICAL   WORKS 

Ilaurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie, 

Mourn,  clam'ring  craiks,  at  close  o'  day, 

O'er  hurcheon  hides, 

*Mang  fields  o'  flowering  clover  gay  ; 

And  like  stock-fish  come  o'er  his  studdie 

And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Wi'  thy  auld  sides ! 

Frae  our  cauld  shore, 

Tell  thae  far  warlds,  wha  lies  in  clay, 

He's  gane !  he's  gane !  he's  frae  us  torn, 

Wham  we  deplore. 

The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born ! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature's  sel'  shall  mourn 

Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow'r, 

By  wood  and  wild, 

In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tow'r, 

Where,  haply,  pity  strays  forlorn. 

What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow'r, 

Frae  man  exil'd ! 

Sets  up  her  horn, 

Wail  thro'  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Te  hills !  near  neebors  o*  the  starns. 

'Till  waukrife  mom ! 

That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns ! 

Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns, 

0  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains ! 

Where  echo  slumbers  I 

Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains : 

Come  join,  ye  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns. 

But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 

My  wailing  numbers  ( 

But  tales  of  woe  ? 

And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens ! 

Maun  ever  flow. 

Ye  haz'lly  shaws  and  briery  dens ! 
Ye  burnies,  wimplin'  down  your  glens. 

Mourn,  spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year ! 

Wi'  toddlin'  din, 

Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a  tear : 

Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens, 
Frae  lin  to  linl 

Thou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  its  head, 

Thy  gay,  green,  flow'ry  tresses  shear 

For  him  that's  dead ! 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o'er  the  lea ; 

Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see ; 

Thou,  autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hair. 

Ye  woodbines,  hanging  bonnilie. 

In  gri^  thy  sallow  mantle  tear: 

In  scented  bow'rs ; 

Thou,  winter,  hurling  thro'  the  air 

Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  roaring  blast, 

The  first  o'  flow'rs. 

Wide,  o'er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we've  lost  I 

At  dawn,  when  ev'ry  grassy  blade 

Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head. 

Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light  I 

At  ev'n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed 

Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 

r  th'  rustling  gale. 

And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright. 

Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro'  the  glade. 

My  Matthew  mourn ! 

Come  join  my  wail. 

For  through  your  orbs  he's  ta'en  his  flight. 

Ne'er  to  return. 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood ; 

0,  Henderson !  the  man — the  brother ! 

Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud; 

And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ? 

Ye  curlews  calling  thro'  a  clud  ; 

And  hast  thou  crost  that  unknown  river 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 

Life's  dreary  bound  ? 
Like  thee,  where  shall  I  find  another, 

An'  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood !— i 

He's  gane  for  ever ! 

The  world  around  ? 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals ; 

Go  to  your  sculptur'd  tombs,  ye  great. 

Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels : 

In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state ! 

Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 

But  by  thy  honest  turf  I'll  wait, 

Circling  the  lake ; 

Thou  man  of  worth!! 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels. 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow's  fate 

Rair  for  his  saKe. 

E'er  lay  in  earth. 

OF   EGBERT   BURNS.                                       IbT 

THE   EPITAPH. 

Solwayside,  Annan ;  Whiskey  Jean,  Kirkcudbright;  and 

Black  Joan,  Sanquhar.     On  the  part  of  Miller,  all  th« 

Stop,  passenger  ! — my  story's  brief, 

Whig  interest  of  the  Duke  of  Queensberry  was  exerted, 

And  truth  I  shall  relate,  man ; 

and  all  the  Tory  interest  on  the  side  of  the  Johnstone  : 

I  tell  nae  common  tale  o'  grief — 

the  poet's  heart  was  w'th  the  latter.    Annan  and  Loch- 

maben  stood  staunch  by  old  names  and  old  affections : 

For  Matthew  was  a  great  man. 

after  a  contest,  bitterer  than  anything  of  the  kind  remem- 

bered, the  Whig  interest  prevailed.] 

If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast, 

Yet  spurn'd  at  fortune's  door,  man, 

There  were  five  carlins  in  the  south, 

A  look  of  pity  hither  cast — 

They  fell  upon  a  scheme,      <a(L.-«. <* 

For  Matthew  was  a  poor  man. 

To  send  a  lad  to  London  town. 

To  bring  them  tidings  hame. 

If  thou  a  noble  sodger  art, 

That  passest  by  this  grave,  man, 

Not  only  bring  them  tidings  hame, 

There  moulders  here  a  gallant  heart — 

But  do  their  errands  there ; 
And  aiblihs  gow^a^d  lionour  baith 

For  Matthew  was  a  brave  man. 

Might  be  that  laddie's  share. 

K  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  ways. 

Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man. 

There  was  Maggy  by  the  banks  o'  Nith. 

Here  lies  wha  weel  had  won  thy  praise — 

A  dame  wi'  pride  eneugh ; 

For  Matthew  was  a  bright  man. 

And  Marjory  o'  the  mony  lochs. 

A  carlin  auld  and  teugh. 

If  thou  at  friendship's  sacred  ca' 

Wad  life  itself  resign,  man, 

And  blinkin'  Bess  of  Annandale, 

Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa' — 

That  dwelt  near  Solway-side  ; 

For  Matthew  was  a  kind  man! 

And  whiskey  Jean,  that  took  her  gill 

In  Galloway  sae  wide. 

If  thou  art  staunch  without  a  stain, 

Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man. 

And  black  Joan,  frae  Crighton-peel, 

This  was  a  kinsman  o'  thy  ain — 

0'  gipsey  kith  an'  kin  ;— 

For  Matthew  was  a  true  man. 

Fire  wighter  carlins  were  na  found 

The  south  countrie  within. 

If  thou  hast  wit,  and  fun,  and  fire, 

And  ne'er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man, 

To  send  a  lad  to  London  town, 

This  was  thy  billie,  dam  and  sire — 

They  met  upon  a  day ; 

For  Matthew  was  a  queer  man. 

And  mony  a  knight,  and  mon/  a  laird. 

This  errand  fain  wad  gae. 

If  ony  whiggish  whingin  sot. 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man. 

0  mony  a  knight,  and  mony  a  laird. 

May  docl  and  sorrow  be  his  lot ! 

This  errand  fain  wad  gae ; 

For  Matthew  was  a  rare  man. 

But  nae  ane  could  their  fancy  please, 

0  ne'er  a  ane  but  twae. 

The  first  ane  was  a  belted  knight. 
Bred  of  a  border  band ; 

And  he  wad  gae  to  London  town. 

'ixm. 

Might  nae  man  him  withstand. 

THE   FIVE   CaRLINS. 

And  he  wad  do  their  errands  weel. 

A    SOOTS     BALLAD. 

And  meikle  he,wad  say ; 

Tune — Chevy  Chase. 

And  ill^Sitl^  a1>6ut  the  court 

Wad  bid  to  him  pudeday. 

[This  is  a  local  nnd  political  Toein  composed  on  the 

contest  between  Miller,  the  younger,  of  Dalswinton,  nnd 

The  neist  cam  in  a  sodger  youtn. 

Johnstone,  of  Westerliall,  for  the  representation  of  the 
Dumfries  and   Galloway  district  of   Boroughs.      Each 

And  spak  wi'  modest  grace. 

town  or  borough  speaks  and  acts  in  character  :  Maggy 

And  he  wad  gae  to  London  town. 

Mraonates  Dumfries;  Marjory,   Lochmaben;    Bess  of 

If  sae  their  pleastire  was. 

168 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


He  wad  na  hecht  them  courtly  gifts, 

Nor  meikle  speech  pretend  ; 
But  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart, 

Wad  ne'er  desert  his  friend. 

Then  wham  to  chuse,  and  wham  refuse, 

At  strife  thir  carlins  fell  ; 
For  some  had  gentlefolks  to  please. 

And  some  wad  please  themsel'. 

Then  out  spak  mira-mou'd  Meg  o'  Nith, 

And  she  spak  up  wi'  pride, 
And  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth, 

Whatever  might  betide. 

For  the  auld  gudeman  o'  London  court 

She  didna  care  a  pin ; 
But  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth 

To  greet  his  eldest  son. 

Ji 
Then  slow  raise  Marjory  o'  the  Lochs 

And  wrinkled  was  her  brow ; 
Her  ancient  weed  was  russet  gray, 

Her  auld  Scotch  heart  was  true. 

"  The  London  court  set  light  by  me — 

I  set  as  light  by  them  ; 
And  I  will  send  the  sodger  lad 

To  shaw  that  court  the  same." 

Then  up  sprang  Bess  of  Annandale, 

And  swore  a  deadly  aith, 
Says,  "  I  will  send  the  border-knight 

Spite  o'  you  carlins  baith. 

*  For  far-off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair. 

And  fools  o'  change  are  fain ; 
But  I  hae  try'd  this  border-knight, 
I'll  try  him  yet  again." 

Then  whiskey  Jean  spak  o'er  her  drink, 

"  Ye  weel  ken,  kimmersa', 
The  auld  gudeman  o'  London  court. 

His  back's  been  at  the  wa'. 

"And  mony  a  friend  that  kiss'd  Jiis  caup. 
Is  now  a  fremit  wight ;    '^■^•' »  '  C^ 

But  it's  ne'er  be  sae  wi'  whiskey  Jean, — 
Wo'll  send  the  border-knight." 

Says  black  Joan  o'  Crighton-peel, 

A  carlin  stoor  and  grim, — 
"  The  auld  gudeman,  or  the  young  gudeman, 

For  me  may  sink  or  swim. 


"  For  fools  will  prate  o'  right  and  wrang. 
While  knaves  laugh  in  their  sleeve; 

But  wha  blaws  best  the  horn  shall  win, 
I'll  spier  nae  courtier's  leave." 

So  how  this  mighty  plea  may  end 

There's  naebody  can  tell : 
God  grant  the  king,  and  ilka  man, 

May  look  weel  to  himsel'  I 


CXIV. 
THE  LADDIES  BY  THE  BANKS  0'  NITH. 

[This  short  Poem  was  first  published  by  Robert  Cham- 
bers. It  intimites  pretty  strongly,  how  r.iufh  the  p->et 
disapproved  of  the  change  which  came  ove:  the  Puke 
of  Queensberry's  opinions,  vvlien  he  supported  trie  r.ght 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  assume  the  government,  with- 
out consent  of  Parliament,  during  the  king's  alarming 
illness,  in  1788.] 

The  laddies  by  the  banks  o*  Nith, 
Wad  trust  his  Grace  wi'  a',  Jamie, 

But  he'll  sair  them,  as  he  sair'd  the  King, 
Turn  tail  and  rin  awa',  Jamie. 

Up  and  waur  them  a',  Jamie, 

Up  and  waur  them  a' ; 
The  Johnstones  hae  the  guidin'  o't. 

Ye  turncoat  Whigs  awa'. 

The  day  he  stude  his  country's  friend," 
Or  gied  her  faes  a  claw,  Jamie : 

Or  frae  puir  man  a  blessin'  wan, 

That  day  the  Duke  ne'er  saw,  Jamie. 

But  wha  is  he,  his  country's  boast? 

Like  him  there  is  na  twa,  Jamie ; 
There's  no  a  callant  tents  the  kye. 

But  kens  o'  Westerha',  Jamie. 

To  end  the  wark  here's  Whistlebirk,' 
Lang  may  his  whistle  blaw,  Jamie  ; 

And  Maxwell  true  o'  sterling  blue  : 
And  we'll  be  Johnstones  a',  Jamie. 

1  Birkwhistle  :  a  Galloway  laird,  and  elector. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


109 


cxv. 

EPISTLE   TO  ROBERT   GRAHAM,  ESQ. 

OF    FINTEAY: 

ON   TH^S   rtOSE   OF   THE   DISPUTED   ELECTION   BETWEEN 

ft    J   .AMES  JOHNSTONE  AND  CAPTAIN  MILLER,  FOR 

THE  DUMFRIES  DISTRICT  OF  BOROUGHS. 

["I  am  too  little  a  man,"  said  Burns,  in  the  note  to 
F;ntray,  wliich  accompanied  this  poem,  "to  have  any 
political  attacliment:  I  am  deeply  indebted  to,  and  have 
the  wannest  veneration  for  individuals  of  both  parties: 
but  a  man  wlio  has  it  in  iiis  power  to  be  tiie  father  of  a 
country,  and  who  acts  like  his  Grace  of  Queensberry,  is 
a  character  that  one  cannot  speak  of  with  patience." 
This  Epistle  was  first  printed  in  my  edition  of  Burns  in 
1S34  :  I  had  the  use  of  tiie  Macmurdo  and  the  Afton  ma- 
nuscripts for  that  purpose  :  to  botli  families  the  poet  was 
much  indebted  for  many  acts  of  courtesy  and  kindness.] 

FiNTRAT,  my  stay  in  worldly  strife, 
Friend  o'  my  muse,  friend  o'  my  life. 

Are  ye  as  idle's  I  am  ? 
Come  then,  "wi'  uncouth,  kintra  fleg. 
O'er  Pegasus  I'll  fling  my  leg, 

And  ye  shall  see  me  try  him. 

I'll  sing  the  zeal  Drumlanrig  bears. 
Who  left  the  all-important  cares 

Of  princes  and  their  darlings ; 
And,  bent  on  winning  borough  towns, 
Came  shaking  hands  wi'  wabster  lowns. 

And  kissing  barefit  carlins. 

Combustion  thro'  our  boroughs  rode, 
Whistling  his  roaring  pack  abroad 

Of  mad  unmuzzled  lions; 
As  Queensberry  buff  and  blue  unfurl'd. 
And  Westerha'  and  Hopeton  hurl'd 

To  every  Whig  defiance. 

But  cautious  Queensberry  left  the  war, 
Th'  unmanner'd  dust  might  soil  his  star; 

Besides,  he  hated  bleeding : 
But  left  behind  him  heroes  bright. 
Heroes  in  Caesarean  fight. 

Or  Ciceronian  pleading. 

0 !  for  ft  throat  like  huge  Mons-meg, 
To  muster  o'er  each  ardent  Whig 

Beneath  Drumlanrig's  banner ; 
Heroes  and  heroines  commix, 
AH  in  the  field  of  politics, 

To  win  immortal  honour. 


1  John  M'Mnrdo,  Esq.,  of  Drumlanrig. 
«  Ferirussonof  Craigdarroch. 
SRi  del  of  Fnars-Carse 


M'Murdo'  and  his  lovely  spouse, 

(Th'  enamour'd  laurels  kiss  her  brows!) 

Led  on  the  loves  and  graces: 
She  won  each  gaping  burgess'  heart. 
While  he,  all-conquering,  play'd  his  part 

Among  their  wives  and  lasses. 

Craigdarroch^  led  a  light-arm'd  corps, 
Tropes,  metaphors  and  figures  pour. 

Like  Hecla  streaming  thunder: 
Glenriddel,^  skill'd  in  rusty  coins. 
Blew  up  each  Tory's  dai-k  designs. 

And  bar'd  the  treason  under. 

In  either  wing  two  champions  fought. 
Redoubted  Staig**  who  set  at  nought 

The  wildest  savage  Tory : 
And  Welsh,^  who  ne'er  yet  flinch'd  his  ground, 
High-wav'd  his  magnum-bonum  round 

W^ith  Cyclopeian  fury. 

Miller  brought  up  th'  artillery  ranks, 
The  many-pounders  of  the  Banks, 

Resistless  desolation! 
While  Maxwelton,  that  baron  bold, 
'Mid  Lawson's^  port  intrench'd  his  hold. 

And  threaten' d  worse  damnation. 

To  these  what  Tory  hosts  oppos'd. 
With  these  what  Tory  warriors  clos'd. 

Surpasses  my  descrivmg: 
Squadrons  extended  long  and  large, 
With  furious  speed  rush  to  the  charge. 

Like  raging  devils  driving. 

What  verse  can  sing,  what  prose  narrate. 
The  butcher  deeds  of  bloody  fate 

Amid  this  mighty  tulzie  I 
Grim  Horror  grinn'd — pale  Terror  roar'd, 
As  Murther  at  his  thrapple  shor'd, 

And  hell  mix'd  in  the  brulzie. 

As  highland  craigs  by  thunder  cleft, 
When  lightnings  fire  the  stormy  lift. 

Hurl  down  with  crashing  rattle: 
As  flames  among  a  hundred  woods ; 
As  headlong  foam  a  hundred  floods  ; 

Such  is  the  rage  of  battle  1 

The  stubborn  Tories  dare  to  die  ; 
As  soon  the  rooted  oaks  would  fly 

Before  the  approaching  fellers . 

<  Provost  Staig  of  Dumfries. 

6  SherifT  Welsh. 

*  A  wine-merchant  in  Dumfries. 


170 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


The  Whigs  come  on  like  Ocean's  roar, 
When  all  his  wintry  billows  pour 

Against  the  Buchan  BuUers. 

Lo,  from  the  shades  of  Death's  deep  night, 
Departed  Whigs  enjoy  the  fight, 

And  think  on  former  daring: 
The  muffled  murtherer'  of  Charles 
The  Magna  Charter  flag  unfurls, 

All  deadly  gules  it's  bearing. 

Nor  wanting  ghosts  of  Tory  fame, 

Bold  Scrimgeour'  follows  gallant  Graham,' 

Auld  Covenanters  shiver. 
(Forgive,  forgive,  much-wrong'd  Montrose ! 
Now  death  and  hell  engulph  thy  foes. 

Thou  liv'st  on  high  for  ever !) 

Still  o'er  the  field  the  combat  bums, 
The  Tories,  Wliigs,  give  way  by  turns  ; 

But  fate  the  wor  '  has  spoken ; 
For  woman's  wit  and  strength  o'  man, 
Alas !  can  do  but  what  they  can ! 

The  Tory  ranks  are  broken. 

0  that  my  een  were  flowing  burns, 
My  voice  a  lioness  that  mourns 

Her  darling  cubs'  undoing  I 
That  I  might  greet,  that  I  might  cry, 
While  Tories  fall,  while  Tories  fly. 

And  furious  Whigs  pursuing  I 

What  Whig  but  melts  for  good  Sir  James ! 
Dear  to  his  country  by  the  names 

Friend,  patron,  benefactor  1 
Not  Pulteney's  wealth  can  Pulteney  save ! 
And  Uopeton  falls,  the  generous  brave  ! 

And  Stewart,*  bold  as  Hector. 

Thou,  Pitt,  Shalt  me  this  overthrow ; 
And  Thurlow  grrwl  a  curse  of  woe ; 

And  Melville  melt  in  wailing ! 
How  Fox  and  Sheridan  rejoice  I 
And  Burke  shall  sing,  0  Prince,  arise, 

Thy  power  is  all  prevailing ! 

For  your  poor  friend,  the  Bard,  afar 
He  only  hears  and  sees  the  war, 

A  cool  spectator  purely ; 
Bo,  when  the  storm  the  forests  rends, 
The  robin  in  the  hedge  descends. 

And  sober  chirps  securely. 


•  The  executioner  of  Charles  i.  was  masked. 
«  Scrimgeour,  L.oru  Duuuee. 


XCI. 


CAPTAIN  GROSE'S 
PEREGRINATIONS   THROUGH   SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTINO  THB 
ANTIQUITIES    OF   THAT   KINGDOM. 

[This  "  fine,  fat,  fodgel  wight"  was  a  cle\er  :nan,  « 
skilful  antiquary,  and  fond  of  wit  and  wine.  He  was 
well  acquainted  with  lieraldry,  and  was  conversant  with 
the  weapons  and  the  armour  of  his  own  and  other  coun- 
tries. He  found  his  way  to  Friars-Carse,  in  the  Vale 
of  Nith,  and  there,  at  the  social  "  board  of  Gienriddel," 
for  the  first  time  saw  Burns.  The  Englishman  he.ird,  it 
is  said,  with  wonder,  the  sarcastic  sallies  and  eloquent 
bursts  of  the  inspired  Scot,  who,  in  his  turn,  surveyed 
with  wonder  the  remarkable  corpulence,  and  listened 
with  pleasure  to  the  independent  sentiments  and  humour- 
ous turns  of  conversation  in  tlie  joyous  Englishman. 
This  Poem  was  the  fruit  of  the  interview,  and  it  is  said  ■ 
that  Grose  regarded  some  passages  as  rather  personal  1 

Hear,  Land  o'  Cakes  and  brither  Scots, 
Frae  Maidenkirk  to  Johnny  Groat's ; 
If  there's  a  hole  in  a'  your  coats, 

I  rede  you  tent  it : 
A  chiel's  amang  you  taking  notes, 

And,  faith,  he'll  prent  it  I 

If  in  your  bounds  ye  chance  to  light 

Upon  a  fine,  fat,  fodgel  wight, 

0'  stature  short,  but  genius  bright. 

That's  he,  mark  weel — 
And  wow !  he  has  an  unco  slight 

0'  cauk  and  keel. 

By  some  auld,  houlet-haunted  biggin, 

Or  kirk  deserted  by  its  riggin, 

It's  ten  to  one  ye'll  find  him  snug  in 

Some  eldritch  part, 
Wi'  deils,  they  say,  L — d  save's !  colleaguin" 

At  some  black  art. 

Ek  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  ha'  or  chaumer. 

Ye  gipsey-gang  that  deal  in  glamour. 

And  you  deep  read  in  hell's  black  grammar, 

Warlocks  and  witches; 
Ye'll  quake  at  his  conjuring  hammer. 

Ye  midnight  b s ! 

It's  tauld  he  was  a  sodger  bred, 
And  ane  wad  rather  fa'n  than  fled  ; 


3  Graham,  iMarquis  of  Montrose. 
*  Stewart  of  Hillside. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


171 


But  now  he's  quat  the  spurtle-blade, 
And  dog-skin  -wallet, 

And  ta'en  the — ^Antiquarian  trade, 

I  think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a  fouth  o'  auld  nick-nackets : 
Rusty  aim  caps  and  jinglin'  jackets, 
Wad  haud  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets, 

A  towmont  guid; 
And  parritch-pats,  and  auid  saut-backets, 

Afore  the  flood. 

Of  Eve's  first  fire  he  has  a  cinder ; 
Auld  Tubal-Cain's  fire-shool  and  fender ; 
That  which  distinguished  the  gender 

0'  Balaam's  ass ; 
A  broom-stick  o'  the  witch  o'  Endor, 

Weel  shod  wi'  brass. 

Forbye,  he'll  shape  you  afi^,  fu'  gleg, 
The  cut  of  Adam's  philibeg : 
The  knife  that  nicket  Abel's  craig 

He'll  prove  you  fully, 
It  was  a  faulding  jocteleg, 

Or  lang-kail  gully. — 

But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee. 
For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he, 
Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 

Guid  fellows  wi'  him ; 
And  port,  0  port!  shine  thou  a  wee, 

And  then  ye'll  see  him  I 

Now,  by  the  pow'rs  o'  verse  and  prose  I 
Thou  art  a  dainty  chiel,  0  Grose  ! — 
Whae'er  o'  thee  shall  ill  suppose. 

They  sair  misca'  thee ; 
I'd  take  the  rascal  by  the  nose. 

Wad  say.  Shame  fa'  thee ! 


cxvn. 

WEITTEN    IN    A   WRAPPEK, 
KNCLOSINa 

A  LETTER  TO  CAPTAIN  GROSE. 

[Burns  wrote  out  some  antiquurinn  and  legendary 
memoriiuht,  respecting  cert-iiu  ruins  tn  Kyle,  and  en- 
tlosed  tliein  in  a  sheet  of  a  paper  to  C.trdonnei,  a  north- 
ern   antiquary.    As   his   mind   teemed   with    poetry  he 


of  sending  a  rhyming  inquiry  after  hit  fat  friend,  and 
Cardonnel  spread  the  condoling  inquiry  over  the  Noith-4 
"Is  he  slan  by  Highlan'  bodies? 
And  eaten  like  a  wether-haggis ?"J 

EIen  ye  ought  o'  Captain  Grose  ? 

Igo  and  ago. 
If  he's  amang  his  friends  or  foes  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  south  or  is  he  north  ? 

Igo  and  ago, 
Or  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  slain  by  Highlan'  bodies? 

Igo  and  ago. 
And  eaten  like  a  wether-haggis  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  to  Abram's  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo  and  ago. 
Or  haudin'  Sarah  by  the  wame  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Where'er  he  be,  the  L — d  be  near  him  I 

Igo  and  ago. 
As  for  the  deil,  he  daur  na  steer  him  I 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

But  please  transmit  the  enclosed  letter, 

Igo  and  ago. 
Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor, 

Iram,  coram,  dago 

So  may  he  hae  auld  stanes  in  store, 

Igo  and  ago, 
The  very  stanes  that  Adam  bore, 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession, 

Igo  and  ago. 
The  coins  o'  Satan's  coronation? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


cxvin. 

TAM  0'   SHANTER 

A   TALE. 

"Of  brownys  and  of  bogilis  full  is  this  Imke." 

Gawin  Oodgiai. 

[This    is    a    West-country    legend,    embellished    by 
genius.     No  other  Poem  in  our  inn^jusige  displnys  such 


could  not.  as  he  afterwards  said,  let  the  opportunity,  pass     variety  of  power,  in  the  same  number  of  lines.    It  was 


172 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


virritten  as  an  inducement  to  Grose  to  admit  Alloway- 
Kirk  into  his  work  on  the  Antiquities  of  Scotland  ;  and 
written  with  such  ecstasy,  that  the  poet  shed  tears  in 
the  moments  of  composition.  The  walk  in  wliich  it  was 
conceived,  on  the  bnies  of  Eliislnnd,  is  held  in  remem- 
brance in  the  vale,  and  pointed  out  to  poetic  inquirers: 
while  flie  scene  where  the  poem  is  liid — the  crumbling 
ruins  the  place  where  the  chapman  perished  in  the  snow 
— the  iree  on  which  tiie  poor  motiier  of  Mun<^o  ended  her 
Borrows— the  cairn  where  the  murdered  child  was  found 
by  the  lunUers— and  the  old  bridge  over  whicii  Maggie 
b(  re  her  astonislied  master  when  all  hell  was  in  pursuit, 
are  first-rate  objects  of  inspection  and  inquiry  in  the 
"Land  of  Murns."  "In  the  inimitnl)le  tale  of  Tam 
o'  Shante  ,"  says  Scott  "Burns  has  left  us  sufficient 
evidence  of  his  al)i!ity  to  combine  tiie  ludicrous  with  the 
awful,  and  even  the  horrible.  No  poet,  with  the  exception 
of  Shakspeare,  ever  possessed  the  power  of  exciting  the 
most  varied  and  discordant  emotions  with  such  rapid 
transitions."]  » -"^  ' 

When  chapman  oillies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak'  the  gate ;      . 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  gettin'  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  l^ng  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles. 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Where  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  O'Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses.) 
0  Tam  !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice !     . ,    ' 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  wasna  sober; 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on. 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on ; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesy'd,  that  late  or  soon. 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon ; 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk. 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames !  it  gars  me  greet. 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet. 
How  raony  lengthen'd  sage  advices. 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  I 


But  to  our  tale  : — Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 
Fast  by  an  ingle  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony ; 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  britlier; 
They  had  been  fou'  for  weeks  thegither  ! 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious ; 
Wi'  favours  secret,  sweet,  and  precious  ; 
The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus  :• 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle- 
Tarn  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himself  amang  the  nappy! 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure: 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  evei ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide; 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride ; 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane^ 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd: 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  de'il  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounterl  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 

A  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Tam  sTielpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 

Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire  ; 

Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet ; 

Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet ; 


1  VARIATION. 

The  cricket  raised  its  cheering  cry. 
The  kittien  clias'd  its  tail  in  joy. 


I  CO  ■-■-  ■-=    2^ 
CO   _  - 


ea 


OF   ROBERT   BURN^, 


173 


Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bugles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. — 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  foord,        '^ 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd ; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  starie^, 
Where  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane ; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cdirn, 
Where  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Where  Alungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel'* 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze  ; 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing ; 
And  loud  rcsovinded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring,  bold  John  Barleycorn ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil ; 
Wi'  usquabae  we'll  face  the  devil! 
The  ^a'£s  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  nae  deils  a  boddle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd, 
'Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And  wow !  Tam  saw  an  tihco'  sight.' 
Warlocks' and  witches  in  a  dance; 
Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reelS; 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels : 
A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 
I      There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast ; 
"A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge ;      .  ^  .  . 
He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  s^irl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.— 
Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses  ; 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light — 
By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table,      '  ^^ 
A  murderer's  ban'6s  in  gibbet  aims ; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns ; 

1  VABIATIOIf . 

Three  lawyers'  tongues  turn'd  inside  oat, 
Wi'  lies  seam'd  like  a  beggar's  clout ; 


A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red-rusted ; 
Five  scimitars,  wi'  murder  crusted ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft:' 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu'. 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd,  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew ; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 
They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross'd,  they  cleekit; 
'Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit,. 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark. 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark !  ^  \,.-^ 

Now  Tam,  0  Tam !  had  thae  been  queans 
A'  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  crieesti^  flarinen,    . 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen, 
TChir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdles,  -'  -^^  ■" 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies ! 

But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags,  wad  spean  a  foal,    ,  . 
Lowping  an'  flinging  on  a  cummock, 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie, 

There  was  a  winsome  wench  and  walie, 

That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore ; 

For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perish'd  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 

And  kepi^  the  country-side  in  fear.) 

Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  ham. 

That,  while  a  lassie,  she  had  worn. 

In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie— 

Ah  !  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches). 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  of  witches ! 

And  priests'  hearts  rotten  black  as  muck, 
Lay  stinking  vile,  in  every  neuk. 


174 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r  ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd ; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main: 
"fill  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither. 
And  roaVs  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark !" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
"When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 

"When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 

As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop !  she  starts  before  their  nose ; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 

When  "  Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 

So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  screech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam  !  Ah,  Tam !  thou'll  get  thy  fairin' ! 

In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin'I 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin' ! 

Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman ! 

Now  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  key-stane'  of  the  brig ; 

There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 

A  running  stream  they  darena  cross ! 

But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 

The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ! 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest,   ^^jij^^,^ 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle ; 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 

Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 

But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 

The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump. 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed : 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind. 
Think !  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear — 
Remember  Tam  O'Shanter's  mare. 

1  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  witches,  or  any  evil 
Bpirts,  have  no  power  to  follow  a  poor  wight  any  fur- 
ther than  the  middle  of  the  next  running  stream.  It  may 
be  proper  likewise  to  mention  to  the  benighted  traveller, 


CXIX. 
ADDRESS   OF   BEELZEBUB 

TO  THB 
PRESIDENT   OF   THB    HIGHLAND    SOClErX. 

[This  Poem  made  its  first  appearance,  as  I  was  assured 
by  my  friend  the  late  Thomas  Pringle,  in  the  Scots  Ma- 
gazine, for  February,  1818,  and  was  printed  from  th« 
original  in  tlie  handwriting  of  Burns.  It  was  headed 
thus,  "  To  the  Riglit  Honourable  the  Earl  of  Breadal- 
byne,  President  of  the  Right  Honourable  and  Honour- 
able the  Highland  Society,  which  met  on  tlie23d  of  May 
last,  at  the  Shakspeare,  Covent  Garden,  to  concert  wayi 
and  means  to  frustrate  the  designs  of  four  hundred 
Higlilanders,  who,  as  the  Society  were  informed  by  Mr. 
M. ,  of  A s,  were  so  audacious  as  to  attempt  an  es- 
cape from  tlieirlawfu.,  lairds  and  magters,  whose  property 
they  were,  by  emigrating  from  the  lands  of  Mr.  Macdo- 
nald,  of  Glengarry,  to  the  wilds  of  Canada,  in  search  of 
that  fantastic  tiling— Liberty."  The  Poem  was  com- 
municated by  Burns  to  his  friend  Rankine  of  Adam  Hill, 
in  Ayrshire.] 

Long  life,  my  Lord,  an'  health  be  yours, 
Unskaith'd  by  hunger'd  Highland  boors ; 
Lord  grant  nae  duddie  desperate  beggar, 
Wi'  dirk,  claymore,  or  rusty  trigger, 
May  twin  auld  Scotland  o'  a  life 
She  likes — as  lambkins  like  a  knife. 

Faith,  you  and  A s  were  right 

To  keep  the  Highland  hounds  in  sight ; 

I  doubt  na !  they  wad  bid  nae  better 

Than  let  them  ance  out  owre  the  water ; 

Then  up  amang  the  lakes  and  seas 

They'll  mak'  what  rules  and  laws  they  please , 

Some  daring  Hancock,  or  a  Franklin' ; 

May  set  their  Highland  bluid  a  ranklin' ; 

Some  W^ashington  again  may  head  them, 

Or  some  Montgomery  fearless  lead  them, 

Till  God  knows  what  may  be  effected 

When  by  such  heads  and  hearts  directed — 

Poor  dunghill  sons  of  dirt  and  mire 

May  to  Patrician  rights  aspire  ! 

Nae  sage  North,  now,  nor  sager  Sackville, 

To  watch  and  premier  o'er  the  pack  vile, 

An'  whare  will  ye  get  Howes  and  Clintons 

To  bring  them  to  a  right  repentance, 

To  cowe  the  rebel  generation, 

An'  save  the  honour  o'  the  nation  ? 

They  an'  be  d d !  what  right  hae  they 

To  meat  or  sleep,  or  light  o'  day  ? 
Far  less  to  riches,  pow'r,  or  freedom. 
But  what  your  lordship  likes  to  gie  them  ? 

that  when  he  falls  in  with  bogles,  whatever  danger  ther« 
may  be  in  his  going  forward,  there  is  much  more  hazard 
in  turning  back. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


175 


But  hear,  my  lord !  Glengarry,  hear ! 

Your  hand's  owre  light  on  them,  I  fear; 

Your  factors,  grieves,  trustees,  and  bailies, 

I  canna'  say  but  they  do  gaylies ; 

They  lay  aside  a'  tender  mercies, 

An'  tirl  the  hallions  to  the  birses ; 

Yet  while  they're  only  poind't  and  herriet, 

They'll  keep  their  stubborn  Highland  spirit; 

But  smash  them !  crash  them  a'  to  spalls  I 

An'  rot  the  dyvors  i'  the  jails ! 

The  young  dogs,  swinge  them  to  the  labour; 

Let  wark  an'  hunger  mak'  them  sober ! 

The  hizzies,  if  theyre  aughtlins  fawsont. 

Let  them  in  Drury-lane  be  lesson'd! 

An'  if  the  wives  an'  dirty  brats 

E'en  thigger  at  your  doors  an'  yetts, 

Flaffan  wi'  duds  an'  grey  wi'  beas', 

Frightiu'  awa  your  deuks  an'  geese. 

Get  out  a  horsewhip  or  a  jowler, 

The  langest  thong,  the  fiercest  growler. 

An'  gar  the  tattered  gypsies  pack 

Wi'  a'  their  bastards  on  their  back ! 

Go  on,  my  Lord!  I  lang  to  meet  you. 

An'  in  my  house  at  hame  to  greet  you ; 

Wi'  common  lords  ye  shanna  mingle, 

The  benmost  neuk  beside  the  ingle, 

At  my  right  han'  assigned  your  seat 

'Tween  Herod's  hip  an  Polycrate, — 

Or  if  you  on  your  station  tarrow. 

Between  Almagro  and  Pizarro, 

A  seat  I'm  sure  ye're  weel  deservin't ; 

An'  till  ye  come — Your  humble  rervant, 

Beelzebub, 
June  Ist,  Anno  Mundi  5790. 


cxx. 

TO 

JOHN  TAYLOR. 

[B-JT1S,  it  appears,  was,  in  one  of  his  excursions  in 
revo:  te  matters,  likely  to  be  detained  at  Wanlockhead  : 
the  roads  were  slippery  with  ice,  his  mare  kept  her  feet 
with  diflicM.ty,  and  all  the  blacksmiths  of  the  village 
were  pre-angaged.  To  Mr.  Taylor,  a  person  of  influence 
in  the  place,  the  poet,  in  despair,  addressed  this  little 
Poem,  begging  his  interference :  Taylor  spoke  to  a  smith ; 
the  smith  flew  to  his  tools,  sharpened  or  frosted  the 
shoes,  and  it  is  said  lived  for  thirty  years  to  boast  that  he 
had  "  never  been  well  paid  but  ance,  and  that  was  by  a 
poet,  who  paid  him  in  money,  paid  him  ia  drink,  and 
pail  him  in  verse."] 

With  Pegasus  upon  a  day, 
Apollo  weary  flying, 


Through  frosty  hills  the  journey  lay, 
On  foot  the  way  was  plying, 

Poor  slip-shod  giddy  Pegasus 

Was  but  a  sorry  walker ; 
To  Vulcan  then  Apollo  goes, 

To  get  a  frosty  calker. 

Obliging  Vulcan  fell  to  work. 
Threw  by  his  coat  and  bonnet. 

And  did  Sol's  business  in  a  crack- 
Sol  paid  him  with  a  sonnet. 

Ye  Vulcan's  sons  of  Wanlockhead, 

Pity  my  sad  disaster ; 
My  Pegasus  is  poorly  shod — 
I'll  pay  you  like  my  master. 

Robert  Burns. 
Ramages,  3  o* clock,  {no  date.) 


CXXI. 
LAMENT 

OF 

MART,  QUEEN  OF   SCOTS, 

ON    THE    APPROACH    OF    SPRING. 

[The  poet  communicated  this  "  Lament"  to  his  friend, 
Dr.  Moore,  in  Februnry,  1791,  but  it  was  composed  about 
the  close  of  the  preceding  year,  at  tlie  request  of  Lady 
Winifred  Maxwell  Constable,  of  Terreagles,  the  last  in 
direct  descent  of  the  noble  and  ancient  house  of  Max- 
well, of  Nithsdale.  Burns  expressed  himself  more  than 
commonly  pleased  with  this  composition;  nor  was  he  un 
rewarded,  for  Lady  Winifred  gave  him  a  valuable  snuff* 
box,  with  the  portrait  of  the  unfortunate  Mary  on  the  lid 
The  bed  still  keeps  its  place  in  Terreagles,  on  which  the 
queen  slept  as  she  was  on  her  way  to  take  refuge  with 
her  cruel  and  treacherous  cousin,  Elizabeth  ;  and  a  lettel 
from  her  no  less  unfortunate  grandson,  Charles  the  First, 
calling  the  Maxwells  to  firm  in  his  cause,  is  preserved  ia 
the  family  archives.] 


Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 

On  every  blooming  tree, 
And  spreads  her  sheets  o'  daisies  white 

Out  o'er  the  grassy  lea : 
Now  Phoebus  cheers  the  crystal  streams, 

And  glads  the  azure  skies; 
But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 

That  fast  in  durance  lies. 


Now  lav'rocks  wake  the  meny  mom, 
Aloft  on  dewy  wing ; 


176 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bow'r, 
Makes  woodliind  echoes  ring  ; 

The  mavis  wild  wi'  mony  a  note. 
Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest: 

In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 
Wi'  care  nor  thrall  opprest. 


Now  hlooms  the  lily  by  the  bank, 

The  primrose  down  the  brae ; 
The  hawthorn's  budding  in  the  glen, 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae ; 
The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 

May  rove  their  sweets  amang ; 
But  I,  the  Queen  of  a'  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  Strang ! 


I  was  the  Queen  o'  bonnie  France, 

Where  happy  I  hae  been; 
Fu'  lightly  rase  I  in  tlie  morn, 

As  biythe  lay  down  at  e'en: 
And  I'm  the  sov'reign  o'  Scotland, 

And  mony  a  traitor  there  ; 
Yet  here  I  lie  in  foreign  bands 

And  never-ending  care. 


But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman ! 

My  sister  and  my  fae, 
Grim  vengeance  yet  shall  whet  a  sword 

That  thro'  thy  soul  shall  gae ! 
The  weeping  blood  in  woman's  breast 

Was  never  known  to  thee ; 
Nor  th'  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of  woe 

Frae  woman's  pitying  e'e. 


My  son !  my  son !  may  kinder  stars 

Upon  thy  fortune  shine  ; 
And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign. 

That  ne'er  wad  blink  on  mine  ! 
God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother's  faes, 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee : 
Ar.i  where  thou  meet'st  thy  mother's  friend 

Remember  him  for  me  ! 


0 !  soon,  to  me,  may  summer  suns 
Nae  mair  light  up  the  morn  ! 

Nae  mair,  to  me,  the  autumn  winds 
Wave  o'er  the  yellow  corn ! 


And  in  the  narrow  house  o'  death 

Let  winter  round  me  rave  ; 
And  the  next  flow'rs  that  deck  the  spring 

Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave  I 


CXXII. 
THE   WHISTLE. 

["As  the  authentic  prose  history,"  says  Burns,  "of 
the  'Whistle'  is  curious,  I  shall  here  give  it.  In  th« 
train  of  Anne  of  Denmark,  when  she  cauie  to  Scotland 
virith  our  James  the  Sixth,  there  came  overaiio  a  Danish 
gentleman  of  pigiintic  stature  and  great  prowess,  and  a 
matchless  champion  of  Bacchus.  He  had  a  little  ehouy 
whistle,  which  at  the  commencement  of  the  orgies,  he 
laid  on  the  table,  and  whoever  was  the  last  able  to  blow 
it,  everybody  else  being  disabled  by  the  potency  of  the 
bottle,  was  to  carry  off  the  whistle  as  a  trophy  of  victory. 
The  Dane  produced  credentials  of  his  victories,  without 
a  single  defeat,  at  the  courts  of  Copenh.igeii,  Stockholm, 
Moscow,  Warsaw,  and  several  of  the  petty  courts  in 
Germany;  and  challenged  the  Scotch  Bacchtmali-ns  to 
the  alternative  of  trying  his  prowess,  or  else  of  acknow- 
ledging their  inferiority.  After  many  overthrows  on  the 
part  of  the  Scots,  the  Dane  was  encoujiYered  by  Sii 
Robert  Lawrie,  (-f  Maxwelton,  ancestor  of  the  present 
worthy  baronet  of  that  name ;  who,  after  three  days  and 
three  nights'  hard  contest,  left  the  Scandinavian  under 
the  table, 

*  And  blew  on  the  whistle  his  requiem  shrill.' 
*'  Sir  Walter,  son  to  Sir  Robert  before  mentioned, 
afterwards  lost  the  whistle  to  Walter  Riddel,  of  Glen- 
riddel,  who  had  married  a  sister  of  Sir  Walter's.— On 
Friday,  the  16th  of  October,  1790,  at  Friars-Carse,  the 
whistle  was  once  more  contended  for,  as  related  in 
the  ballad,  by  the  present  Sir  Robert  of  Maxwelton; 
Robert  Riddel,  Esq  ,  of  Glenriddel,  lineal  descendant 
and  representative  of  Walter  Riddel,  who  won  tlie  whis- 
tle, and  in  whose  family  it  had  continued  ;  and  Alexander 
Fergusson,  Esq.,  of  Craigdarroch,  likewise  descended 
of  the  great  Sir  Robert ;  which  last  gentleman  carried  off 
the  hard-wonhonours  of  the  field." 

The  jovial  contest  took  place  in  the  dining-room  of 
Friars-Carse,  in  the  presence  of  the  Bard,  wlio  drank 
bottle  and  bottle  about  with  them,  and  seemed  quite  dis- 
posed to  take  up  the  conqueror  when  the  day  dawned  .J 

I  siNa  of  a  whistle,  a  whistle  of  worth, 
I  sing  of  a  whistle,  the  pride  of  the  North, 
Was  brought  to  the  court  of  our  good  Scottish 

king, 
And  long  with  this  whistle  all  Scotland  shall 

ring. 

Old  Loda, '  still  rueing  the  arm  of  Fingal, 
The  god  of  the  bottle  sends  down  from  his  hall— 

1  See  Ossian's  Carie-thura. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


177 


*•  This  whistle's  your  challenge— to  Scotland  get 

o'er, 
And  drink  them  to  hell,  Sir !  or  ne'er  see  me 

more  !*' 

Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chronicles  tell. 
What  champions  ventur'd,  what  champions  fell ; 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still. 
And  blew  on  his  whistle  his  requiem  shrill. 

Till  Robert,  the  Lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the  Scaur, 
Unmatch'd  at  the  bottle,  unconquer'd  in  war. 
He  drank  his  poor  godship  as  deep  as  the  sea. 
No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e'er  drunker  than  he. 

Thus  Robert,  victorious,  the  trophy  has  gain'd ; 
Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages  remain'd ; 
Till  three  noble  chieftains,  and  all  of  his  blood, 
The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew'd. 

Three  joyous  good  fellows,  with  hearts  clear  of 

flaw; 
Craigdarroch,  so  famous  for  wit,  worth,  and 

law; 
And  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skill'd  in  old  coins ; 
And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep-read  in  old  wines. 

Craigdarroch  began,  with  a  tongue  smooth  as 

oil, 
Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  spoil ; 
Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  the  clan. 
And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was  the 

man. 

•♦By  the  gods  of  the  ancients!"  Glenriddel  re- 
plies, 
"  Before  I  surrender  so  glorious  a  prize, 
I'll  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Rorie  More,i 
And  bumper  his  horn  with  him  twenty  times 
o'er." 

Sir  Robert,  a  soldier,  no  speech  would  pretend, 
But  he  ne'er  turn'd  his  back  on  his  foe — or  his 

friend. 
Said,  toss  down  the  whistle,  the  prize  of  the 

field. 
And,  knee-deep  in  claret,  he'd  die  or  he'd  yield. 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  repair. 
So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care ; 
But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more  known 

to  fame 
Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste  of  a  sweet  lovely 

dame. 


1  See  Johnson's  Tour  to  the  Hebrides 
12 


A  bard  was  selected  to  witness  the  fray. 
And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day ; 
A  bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and  spleen. 
And  wish'd  that  Parnassus  a  vineyard  had  been. 

The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  ply. 
And  ev'ry  new  cork  is  a  new  spring  of  joy ; 
In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and  kindred  so 

set, 
And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they 

were  wet. 

Gay  Pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o'er ; 
Bright  Phoebus  ne'er  witness'd  so  joyous  a  core, 
And  vow'd  that  to  leave  them  he  was   quite 

forlorn. 
Till  Cynthia  hinted  he'd  find  them  next  morn. 

Six  bottles  a-piece  had  well  wore  out  the  night. 
When  gallant  Sir  Robert,  to  finish  the  fight, 
Turn'd  o'er  in  one  bumper  a  bottle  of  red. 
And  swore  'twas  the   way  that  their  ancestor 
did. 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious  and  sage, 
No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly,  would  wage ; 
A  high-ruling  Elder  to  wallow  in  wine ! 
He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the  end ; 

But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart-bumpers  con- 
tend? 

Though  fate  said — a  hero  shall  perish  in  light ; 

So  up  rose  bright  Phoebus — and  down  fell  the 
knight. 

Next  up  rose  our  bard,  like  a  prophet  in  drink ; — 
"  Craigdarroch,  thou'lt  soar  when  creation  shall 

sink; 
But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme. 
Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at  the  eub' 

lime! 

"  Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  freedom  "with 

Bruce, 
Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce  : 
So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay ; 
The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god  of 

day !" 


178 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


CXXIII. 
ELEGY 

OH 

MISS  BURNET, 

OF   MONBODDO. 

[This  beautiful  and  accomplished  lady,  the  heavenly 
Burnet,  as  Burns  loved  to  call  her,  vv^as  daughter  to  the 
odd  and  tlie  elegant,  the  clever  and  the  whimsical  Lord 
Monboddo.  "  In  domestic  circumstances,"  savs  Robert 
Chambers,  "Monboddo  was  particularly  unfortunate. 
His  wife,  a  very  beautiful  woman,  died  in  child-bed.  His 
son,  a  promising  boy,  in  whose  education  he  took  great 
delight,  was  likewise  snatched  from  his  affections  by  a 
premature  death ;  and  his  second  daughter,  in  personal 
loveliness  one  of  the  first  women  of  the  age,  was  cut  off 
by  consumption,  when  only  twenty-five  years  old."  Her 
name  was  Elizabeth.] 

Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize 
As  Burnet,  lovely  from  her  native  skies ; 
Nor  envious  death  so  triumph'd  in  a  blow, 
As  that  which  laid  th'  accomplish'd  Burnet  low. 

Thy  form  and  mind,  sweet  maid,  can  I  forget? 
In  richest  ore  the  brightest  jewel  set! 
In  thee,  high  Heaven  above  was  truest  shown, 
As  by  his  noblest  work,  the  Godhead  best  is 
known. 

In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer's  pride,  ye  groves ; 

Thou  crystal  streamlet  with  thy  flowery  shore. 
Ye  woodland  choir  that  chant  your  idle  loves. 

Ye  cease  to  charm — Eliza  is  no  more ! 

Ye  heathy  wastes,  immix'd  with  reedy  fens  ; 

Ye   mossy  streams,  with   sedge   and  rushes 
stor'd ; 
Ye  rugged  cliffs,  o'erhanging  dreary  glens, 

To  you  I  fly,  ye  with  my  soul  accord. 

Princes,  whose  cumb'rous  pride  was  all  their 
worth, 

Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail  ? 
And  thou,  sweet  excellence !  forsake  our  earth, 

And  not  a  muse  in  honest  grief  bewail  ? 

We  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  and  beauty  s  pride. 
And  virtue's  light,  that  beams   beyond  the 
spheres  ; 

But  like  the"  sun  eclips'd  at  morning  tide. 
Thou  left'st  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears. 

The  parent's  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thee. 
That  heart  how  sunk,  a  prey  to  grief  and 
care; 

fio  leck'd  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree  ; 
So  from  it  ravish' d,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 


CXXIV. 
LAMENT 

FOR 

JAMES,  EARL  OF   GLENCAIRN. 

[Bums  lamented  the  death  of  this  kind  and  accom* 
plished  nobleman  with  melancholy  sincerity:  h«  more- 
over named  one  of  his  sons  for  him:  he  went  into  mourn* 
ing  when  he  heard  of  his  death,  and  he  sung  of  his  merit! 
in  a  strain  not  destined  soon  to  lose  the  place  it  has  taken 
among  verses  which  record  the  names  of  the  noble  and 
the  generous.  He  died  January  30,  1791,  in  the  forty- 
second  year  of  his  age.  James  Cunningham  was  suc- 
ceeded in  his  title  by  his  brother,  and  with  him  expired, 
in  1796,  the  last  of  a  race,  whose  name  is  intimately 
connected  with  the  History  of  Scotland,  from  the  days 
of  Malcolm  Canmore.] 

I. 

The  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills. 

By  fits  the  sun's  departing  beam 
Look'd  on  the  fading  yellow  woods 

That  wav'd  o'er  Lugar's  winding  stream : 
Beneath  a  craggy  steep,  a  bard. 

Laden  with  years  and  meikle  pain, 
In  loud  lament  bewail'd  his  lord, 

Whom  death  had  all  untimely  ta'en. 


He  lean'd  him  to  an  ancient  aik,  [years ; 

Whose   trunk  was   mould'ring   down  with 
His  locks  were  bleached  white  with  time. 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi'  tears ; 
And  as  he  touch'd  his  trembling  harp, 

And  as  he  tun'd  his  doleful  sang, 
The  winds,  lamenting  thro'  their  caves. 

To  echo  bore  the  notes  alang. 

III. 

"Ye  scatter'd  birds  that  faintly  sing. 

The  reliques  of  the  vernal  quire ! 
Ye  woods  that  shed  on  a'  the  winds 

The  honours  of  the  aged  year ! 
A  few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gay. 

Again  ye'U  charm  the  ear  and  e'e ; 
But  nocht  in  all  revolving  time 

Can  gladness  bring  again  to  me. 

IV. 

"  I  am  a  bending  aged  tree. 

That  long  has  stood  the  wind  and  rain ; 
But  now  has  come  a  cruel  blast. 

And  my  last  hold  of  earth  is  gane  : 
Nae  leaf  o'  mine  shall  greet  the  spring, 

Nae  simmer  sun  exalt  my  bloom ; 
But  I  maun  lie  before  the  storm, 

And  ither3  plant  them  in  my  room. 


OF   ROBEET    BUKNS. 


17^ 


•'  I've  seen  sae  mony  changcfu'  years, 

On  earth  I  am  a  stranger  grown ; 
I  wan3er  in  the  ways  of  men, 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown : 
Unheard,  unpitied,  unrelieved, 

I  bear  alane  my  lade  o'  care. 
For  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust. 

Lie  a'  that  would  my  sorrows  share. 


"  And  last  (the  sum  of  a'  my  griefs  !) 

My  noble  master  lies  in  clay ; 
The  flow'r  amang  our  barons  bold, 

His  country's  pride  !  his  country's  stay — 
In  weary  being  now  I  pine. 

For  a'  the  life  of  life  is  dead. 
And  hope  has  left  my  aged  ken. 

On  forward  wing  for  ever  fled. 

VII. 

"  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp ! 

The  voice  of  woe  and  wild  despair ; 
Awake !  resound  thy  latest  lay — 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair ! 
And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend, 

That  fillest  an  untimely  tomb. 
Accept  this  tribute  from  the  bard     [gloom. 

Though  brought  from  fortune's  mirkest 

VIII. 

"  In  poverty's  low  barren  vale 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involv'd  me  round ; 
Though  oft  I  turn'd  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found : 
Thou  found'st  me,  like  the  morning  sun, 

That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air, 
The  friendless  bard  and  rustic  song 

Became  alike  thy  fostering  care. 


"  0  !  why  has  worth  so  short  a  date  ? 

While  villains  ripen  gray  with  time ; 
Must  thou,  the  noble,  gen'rous,  great. 

Fall  in  bold  manhood's  hardy  prime  ! 
Why  did  I  live  to  see  that  day  ? 

A  day  to  me  so  full  of  woe ! — 
0  had  I  met  the  mortal  shaft 

Which  laid  my  benefactor  low. 


'*  The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 
Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen  ; 

The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 
That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been ; 


The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee  ; 

But  I'll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 
And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me  V* 


cxxv. 

LINES 

SENT  TO 

SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD,   BART.. 

OF    WHITEFOORD. 
WITH    THE    FOBEGOINO    POEM. 

[Sir  John  Whitefoord,  a  name  of  old  standing  in 
Ayrshire,  inherited  the  love  of  his  family  for  literature, 
and  interested  himself  early  in  the  fame  and  fortunes  o*" 
Burns.] 

Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever'st. 
Who,  save  thy  mind's  reproach,  nought  earthly 

fear'st. 
To  thee  this  votive  offering  I  impart, 
The  tearful  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 
The  friend  thou  valuedst,  I,  the  patron,  loVd ; 
His  worth,  his  honour,  all  the  world  approv'd. 
We'll  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  he  has  gone. 
And  tread  the  dreary  path  to  that  dark  world 

unknown. 


CXXVI. 

ADDRESS 

TO 

THE   SHADE   OF   THOMSON, 

ON  CBOWNINO  HIS  BUST  AT  EDNAM  WITH  BATS. 

["  Lord  Buchan  has  the  pleasure  to  invite  Mr.  Bumi 
to  make  one  at  the  coronation  of  the  bust  of  Thomson, 
on  Ednam  Hill,  on  the  22d  of  September  :  for  which  daf 
perhaps  his  muse  may  inspire  an  ode  suited  to  the  occa- 
sion. Suppose  Mr.  Bums  should,  leaving  the  Nith,  go 
across  the  country,  and  meet  the  Tweed  at  the  nearest 
point  from  his  farm,  and,  wandering  along  the  pastoral 
banks  of  Thomson's  pure  parent  stream,  catch  inspiration 
in  the  devious  walk,  till  he  finds  Lord  Buchan  sitting  on 
the  ruins  of  Dryburgh.  There  the  Commendator  will 
give  him  a  hearty  welcome,  and  try  to  light  his  lamp  at 
the  pure  flame  of  native  genius,  upon  the  altar  of  Cale- 
donian virtue."  Such  was  the  invitation  of  the  Earl  of 
Buchan  to  Burns.  To  request  the  poet  to  lay  down  hia 
sickle  when  his  harvest  was  half  reaped,  and  trarerta 


180 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


one  of  the  wildest  and  most  untrodden  ways  in  Scotland, 
for  the  purpose  of  looking  at  the  fantastic  coronation  of 
the  bad  bust  of  an  excellent  poet,  was  worthy  of  Lord 
Buchan.  The  poor  bard  made  answer,  that  a  week's 
absence  in  the  middle  of  his  harvest  was  a  step  he  durst 
not  venture  upon — but  he  sent  this  Poem. 

The  poet's  manuscript  affords  the  following  interesting 
variations : — 

"  While  cold-eyed  Spring,  a  virgin  coy, 

Unfolds  her  verdant  mantle  sweet, 
Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  joy, 
A  carpet  for  her  youthful  feet : 

«'  While  Summer,  with  a  matron's  grace, 
Walks  stately  in  the  cooling  shade. 

And  oft  delighted  loves  to  trace 
The  progress  of  tlie  spiky  blade  : 

"  While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind. 

With  age's  hoary  honours  clad. 
Surveys,  with  self-approving  mind. 

Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed." 

While  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden's  flood, 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green. 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood, 
Or  tunes  -ffiolian  strains  between : 

While  Summer,  with  a  matron  grace. 
Retreats  to  Dryburgh's  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade : 

While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind, 
By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head, 

And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind, 
Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed : 

While  maniac  Winter  rages  o'er 

The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows, 

Rousing  the  turbid  torrent's  roar, 
Or  sweeping,  wild,  a  waste  of  snows : 

So  long,  sweet  Poet  of  the  year ! 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  hast  won ; 
While  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear, 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son. 


cxxvn. 

TO 

ROBERT   GRAHAM,   ESQ., 

OF     FINTRAT. 

By  this  Poem  Burns  prepared  the  way  for  his  humble 
request  to  be  removed  to  a  district  more  moderate  in  its 
bounds  than  one  which  extended  over  ten  country 
panaiies,  and  exposed  him  both  to  fatigue  and  expense. 


This  wish  was  expressed  in  prose,  and  was  in  due  tim« 
attended  to,  for  Fintray  was  a  gentleman  at  once  kind 
and  considerate.] 

Late  crippl'd  of  an  arm,  and  now  a  leg, 
About  to  beg  a  pass  for  leave  to  beg : 
Dull,  listless,  teas'd,  dejected,  and  deprest, 
(Nature  is  adverse  to  a  cripple's  rest ;) 
Will  generous  Graham  list  to  his  Poet's  wail  ? 
(It  soothes  poor  misery,  hearkening  to  her  tale,) 
And  hear  him  curse  the  light  he  first  survey'd. 
And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyming  trade  * 

Thou,  Nature,  partial  Nature !  I  arraign ; 
Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I  complain  : 
The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  found. 
One  shakes  the   forests,  and   one   spurns   the 

ground : 
Thou  giv'st  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snail  his  shell, 
Th'  envenom'd  wasp,  victorious,  guards  his  cell ; 
Thy  minions,  kings,  defend,  control,  devour. 
In  all  th'  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power ; 
Foxes  and  statesmen,  subtile  wiles  insure  ; 
The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are  secure  ; 
Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors  with  their  drug. 
The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes   are 

snug; 
Ev'n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts, 
Her  tongue  and  eyes,  her  dreaded  spear  and 

darts  ; — 
But,  oh  !  thou  bitter  stepmother  and  hard, 
To  thy  poor  fenceless,  naked  child — the  Bard  I 
A  thing  unteachable  in  world's  skill. 
And  half  an  idiot  too,  more  helpless  still ; 
No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  op'ning  dun ; 
No  claws  to  dig,  his  hated  sight  to  shun ; 
No  horns,  but  those  by  luckless  Hymen  worn, 
And  those,  alas !  not  Amalthea's  horn : 
No  nerves  olfact'ry.  Mammon's  trusty  cur, 
Clad  in  rich  dullness'  comfortable  fur ; — 
In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride, 
He  bears  the  unbroken  blast  from  every  side . 
Vampyre  booksellers  drain  him  to  the  heart, 
And  scorpion  critics  cureless  venom  dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd  I  venture  on  the  name, 
Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths  of  fame . 
Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  Monroes ! 
He  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  expose. 

His  heart  by  causeless  wanton  malice  wrung, 
By  blockheads'  daring  into  madness  stung ; 
His  well-won  bays,  than  life  itself  more  dear. 
By  miscreants  torn,  who  ne'er  one  sprig  musi 
wear: 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS 


181 


Foil'd,  bleeding,  tortur'd,  in  the  unequal  strife, 
The  hapless  poet  flounders  on  through  life ; 
Till,  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom  fir'd. 
And  fled  each  muse  that  glorious  once  inspir'd, 
Low  sunk  in  squalid,  unprotected  age, 
Dead,  even  resentment,  for  his  injur'd  page, 
He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruthless  critic's 
rage  1 

So,  by  some  hedge,  the  gen'rous  steed  deceas'd, 
For  half-starv'd  snarling  curs  a  dainty  feast : 
By  toil  and  famine  wore  to  skin  and  bone, 
Lies  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch's  son. 

0  dullness  !  portion  of  the  truly  blest ! 
Calm  shelter'd  haven  of  eternal  rest ! 

Thy  sons  ne'er  madden  in  the  fierce  extremes 
Of  fortune's  polar  frost,  or  torrid  beams. 
If  mantling  high  she  fills  the  golden  cup, 
With  sober  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up ; 
Conscious  the  bounteous  meed  they  well  de- 
serve. 
They  only  wonder  "  some  folks"  do  not  starve. 
The  grave  sage  hern  thus  easy  picks  his  frog, 
And  thinks  the  mallard  a  sad  worthless  dog. 
When  disappointment  snaps  the  clue  of  hope, 
And  thro'  disastrous  night  they  darkling  grope, 
With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they  bear, 
And  just  conclude  that  "fools  are  fortune's 

care." 
So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest's  shocks, 
Strong  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 

Not  so  the  idle  muses'  mad-cap  train. 

Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon-struck 

brain ; 
In  equanimity  they  never  dwell, 
By  turns  in  soaring  heav'n  or  vaulted  hell 

1  dread  thee,  fate,  relentless  and  severe, 
With  all  a  poet's,  husband's,  father's  fear ! 
Already  one  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost, 
Glencairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust ; 
(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclips'd  as  noon  appears, 
And  left  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears :) 

0 !  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  pray'r ! — 
Fintray,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare ! 
Thro'  a  long  life  his  hopes  and  wishes  crown ; 
And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go  down ! 
May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private  path ; 
Qive  energy  to  life ;  and  soothe  his  latest  breath, 
With  many  a  filial  tear  circling  the  bed  of  death! 


CXXVIII. 

TO 

ROBERT   GRAHAM,   ESQ., 

OP   FINTEAY. 
ON    RKCBIVINO    A    FAVOTTE. 

[Graham  of  Fintray  not  only  obtained  for  the  poet  tl.« 
appointment  in  the  Excise,  which,  while  he  lived  in 
Edinburgh,  he  desired,  but  he  also  removed  him;  as  he 
wished,  to  a  better  district;  and  when  imputations  were 
thrown  out  against  his  loyalty,  he  defended  him  with 
obstinate  and  successful  eloquence.  Fintray  did  all  that 
was  done  to  raise  Burns  out  of  the  toiling  humility  of  his 
condition,  and  enable  him  to  serve  the  muse  without  fear 
of  want.] 

I  CALL  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 
A  fabled  muse  may  suit  a  bard  that  feigns ; 
Friend  of  my  life !  my  ardent  spirit  burns. 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns, 
For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new. 
The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver,  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day !  thou  other  paler  light ! 
And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night ; 
If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  efface  ; 
If  I  that  giver's  bounty  e'er  disgrace ; 
Then  roll  to  me,  along  your  wandering  spheres, 
Only  to  number  out  a  villain's  years  ! 


CXXIX. 


A   VISION. 


[Tfiis  Vision  of  Liberty  descended  on  Bums  among  ti» 
magnificent  ruins  of  the  College  of  Lincluden,  which 
stand  on  the  junction  of  the  Cluden  and  the  Nith,  a  short 
mile  above  Dumfries.  He  gave  us  the  Vision  :  perhaps, 
he  dared  not  in  those  yeasty  times  venture  on  the  song, 
which  his  secret  visitant  poured  from  her  lips.  The 
scene  is  chiefly  copied  from  nature  :  the  swellings  of  the 
Nith,  the  bowlings  of  the  fox  on  the  hill,  and  the  cry  of 
the  owl,  unite  at  times  with  the  naturul  beauty  of  the 
spot,  and  give  it  life  and  voice.  These  ruins  weie  a 
favourite  haunt  of  the  poet.] 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 

Where  the  wa' -flower  scents  the  dewy  air, 

Where  th'  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care  *. 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still. 
The  stars  they  shot  along  the  sky ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill. 
And  the  distant  echoing  glens  reply. 


182 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path, 
Was  rushing  by  the  ruin'd  wa's, 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith," 
Whose  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa's. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hissing  eerie  din ; 

Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift, 
Like  fortune's  favours,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I  turn'd  mine  eyes, 
And,  by  the  moonbeam,  shook  to  see 

A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 
Attir'd  as  minstrels  wont  to  be.^ 

Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane, 
His  darin'  look  had  daunted  me ; 

And  on  his  bonnet  grav'd  was  plain. 
The  sacred  posy — 'Libertiel' 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow. 

Might  rous'd  the  slumb'ring  dead  to  hear*, 

But,  oh !  it  was  a  tale  of  woe. 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's  ear. 

He  sang  wi'  joy  the  former  day. 
He  weeping  wail'd  his  latter  times ; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, — 
I  winna  ventur't  in  my  rhymes. 


cxxx. 


JOHN  MAXWELL  OF  TERRAUGHTY, 

ON    HIS    BIKTH-DAY. 

[John  Maxwell  of  Terraughty  and  Munshes,  to  whom 
these  verses  are  addressed,  though  descended  from  the 
Eails  of  Nithsdale,  cared  little  about  lineage,  and  claim- 
ed merit  only  from  a  judgment  sound  and  clear — a  know- 
ledge of  business  which  penetrated  into  all  the  concema 
of  life,  and  a  skill  in  handling  the  most  difficult  subjects, 
which  was  considered  unrivalled.  Under  an  austere 
manner,  he  hid  much  kindness  of  heart,  and  was  in  a 
fair  way  of  doing  an  act  of  gentleness  when  giving  a  re- 
fusal. He  loved  to  meet  Burns  :  not  that  he  either  cared 
for  or  comprehended  poetry ;  but  he  was  pleased  with 
his  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  with  the  keen  and 

VARIATIONS. 

1  To  join  yon  river  on  the  Strath. 

2  Now  looking  over  firth  and  fauld. 

Her  horn  the  pule-fac'd  Cynthia  rear'd ; 
When,  lo,  in  form  of  minstrel  auld, 
A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  appear'd. 


piercing  remarks  in  which  he  indulged.  He  was  seven- 
ty-one years  old  when  these  verses  were  written,  an^ 
survived  the  poet  twenty  years.] 

Health  to  the  Maxwell's  vet'ran  chief! 
Health,  ay  unsour'd  by  care  or  grief: 
Lispir'd,  I  turn'd  Fate's  sybil  leaf 

This  natal  morn ; 
I  see  thy  life  is  stuff  o'  prief, 

Scarce  quite  half  worn 

This  day  thou  raetes  three  score  eleven, 
And  I  can  tell  that  bounteous  Heaven 
(The  second  sight,  ye  ken,  is  given 

To  ilka  Poet) 
On  thee  a  tack  o'  seven  times  seven 

Will  yet  bestow  it.     , 

If  envious  buckles  view  wi'  sorrow 

Thy  lengthen'd  days  on  this  blest  morrow, 

May  desolation's  lang  teeth'd  harrow, 

Nine  miles  an  hour. 
Rake  them  like  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 

In  brunstane  stoure — 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  mony, 
Baith  honest  men  and  lasses  bonnie, 
May  couthie  fortune,  kind  and  cannie, 

In  social  glee, 
Wi'  mornings  blythe  and  e'enings  funny 

Bless  them  and  thee ! 

Fareweel,  auld  birkie !  Lord  be  near  ye, 
And  then  the  Deil  he  daur  na  steer  ye ; 
Your  friends  ay  love,  your  faes  ay  fear  ye ; 

For  me,  shame  fa'  me. 
If  neist  my  heart  I  dinna  wear  ye 

While  BuBNS  they  ca'  mel 

Dumfries,  18  Feb.  1792. 


CXXXI. 
THE  RIGHTS   OF,  WOMAN. 

AN  OCCASIONAL  ADDRESS   SPOKEN   BY  MISS   FOKTENELLB 
ON  HER   BENEFIT    NIGHT, 

Nov.  26, 1792. 

[Miss  Fontenelle  was  one  of  the  actresses  whom  "Wil- 
liamson, the  manager,  brought  for  several  seasons  to 
Dumfries:  she  was  young  and  pretty,  indulged  in  littl* 
levities  ofspeech,  and  rumouradded,  perhaps  maliciously 
levities  of  action.  The  Riglits  ot  Man  had  been  advo 
cated  by  Paine,  the  Rights  of  Woman  by  Marj-  Wul 


OF  ROBEKT  BURNS. 


183 


gloiiecroft,  and  nought  was  talked  of,  but  the  moral  and 
political  regeneration  of  the  world.    The  line 

"  But  truce  with  kings  and  truce  with  constitutions," 
got  an  uncivil  twist  in  recitation,  from  some  of  the  audi- 
erce.    The  words  were  eagerly  caught  up,  and  had  some 
hisses  bestowed  on  them.] 

While  Europe's  eye  is  fix'd  on  mighty  things, 
Ihe  fate  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings; 
While  quacks  of  state  must  each  produce  his 

plan, 
And  even  children  lisp  the  Rights  of  Man ; 
Amid  this  mighty  fuss  just  let  me  mention. 
The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  attention. 

First  on  the  sexes'  intermix'd  connexion, 
One  sacred  Right  of  Woman  is  protection. 
The  tender  flower  that  lifts  its  head,  elate. 
Helpless,  must  fall  before  the  blasts  of  fate, 
Sunk  on  the  earth,  defac'd  its  lovely  form. 
Unless  your  shelter  ward  th'  impending  storm. 

Our  second  Right — but  needless  here  is  caution, 
To  keep  that  right  inviolate's  the  fashion, 
Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him. 
He'd  die  before  he'd  wrong  it — 'tis  decorum. — 
There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  polish'd  days, 
A  time,  when  rough,  rude  man  had  naughty 

ways; 
Would  swagger,  swear,  get  drunk,  kick  up  a  riot, 
Nay,  even  thus  invade  a  lady's  quiet. 

Now,  thank  our  stars !  these  Gothic  times  are  fled ; 
Now,  well-bred  men — and  you  are   all  well- 
bred — 
Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much  the  gainers) 
Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor  manners. 

For  Right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best,  our 

dearest. 
That  right  to  fluttering  female  hearts  the  nearest, 
Which  even  the  Rights  of  Kings  in  low  pros- 
tration 
Mci*  humbly  own — 'tis  dear,  dear  admiration  I 
In  tLat  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and  move ; 
There  taste  that  life  of  life — immortal  love. — 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flirtations,  airs, 
'Gainst  such  an  host  what  flinty  savage  dares — 
When  awful  Beauty  joins  with  all  her  charms. 
Who  is  so  rash  as  rise  in  rebel  arms  ? 

But  truce  with  kings  and  truce  with  constitutions, 
With  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions. 
Let  majesty  your  first  attention  summon, 
Ah !  ga  ira  !  the  majesty  of  woman  ! 


CXXXII. 
MONODY, 

ON  A   LADY   FAMED   FOB   HER   CAPRICE. 

[The  heroine  of  this  rough  lampoon  was  Mrs.  Riddel 
of  Woodleigh  Park :  a  lady  young  and  gay,  much  of  9 
wit,  and  something  of  a  poetess,  and  till  the  hour  of  hi< 
death  the  friend  of  Burns  himself.  She  pulled  his  dis- 
pleasure on  her,  it  is  said,  by  smiling  more  sweetly  than 
he  liked  on  some  "epauletted  coxcombs,"  for  so  ha 
sometimes  designated  commissioned  officers:  the  laJy 
soon  laughed  him  out  of  his  mood.  We  owe  to  her  pen 
an  account  of  her  last  interview  with  the  poet,  written 
with  great  beauty  and  feeling.] 

How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once  fired. 
How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the  rouge  lately 
glisten' d ! 
How  silent  that  tongue  which  the  echoes  oft 
tired. 
How  dull  is  that  ear  which  to  flattery  so  lia- 
ten'd ! 

If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await. 
From  friendship   and  dearest  aff"ection  re- 
mov'd ; 

How  doubly  severer,  Maria,  thy  fate, 

Thou  diest  unwept  as  thou  livedst  tinlov'd 

Loves,  Graces,  and  Virtues,  I  call  not  on  you ; 

So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  shed  not  a  tear : 
But  come,  all  ye  off'spring  of  Folly  so  true, 

And  flowers  let  us  cull  for  Maria's  cold  bier. 

We'll  search  through  the  garden  for  each  silly 
flower. 
We'll  roam  through  the  forest  for  each  idle 
weed; 
But  chiefly  the  nettle,  so  typical,  shower. 
For  none  e'er  approach'd  her  but  rued  the 
rash  deed. 

We'll  sculpture  the  marble,  we'll  measure  tha 
lay; 
Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  lyre ; 
There  keen  indignation  shall  dart  on  her  prey, 
Which  spurning  Contempt  shall  redeem  froni 
his  ire. 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting  neglect. 
What  once  was  a  butterfly,  gay  in  life's  beam 

Want  only  of  wisdom  denied  her  respect, 
Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  esteem 


184 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


CXXXIII. 
EPISTLE 

FROM 

ESOPUS   TO   MARIA. 

[Williamson,  the  actor,  Colonel  Macdouall,  Captain 
Gillespie,  and  Mrs.  Riddel,  are  the  characters  which  pass 
over  the  stage  in  this  strange  composition  :  it  is  printed 
from  the  Poet's  own  munuscript,  and  seems  a  sort  of 
outpouring  of  wrath  and  contempt,  on  persons  who,  in  his 
eyes,  gave  themselves  airs  beyond  their  condition,  or 
their  merits.  The  verse  of  the  lady  is  held  up  to  con- 
tempt and  laughter:  the  satirist  celebrates  her 

«  Motley  foundling  fancies,  stolen  or  strayed;" 
and  has  a  passing  hit  at  her 

"  Still  matchless  tongue  that  conquers  all  reply."] 

From  those  drear  solitudes  and  frowsy  cells, 
Where  infamy  with  sad  repentance  dwells  ; 
Where  turnkeys  make  the  jealous  portal  fast, 
And  deal  from  iron  hands  the  spare  repast ; 
Where  truant  'prentices,  yet  young  in  sin, 
Blush  at  the  curious  stranger  peeping  in ; 
Where  strumpets,  relics  of  the  drunken  roar, 
Resolve  to  drink,  nay,  half  to  whore,  no  more ; 
Where  tiny  thieves  not  destin'd  yet  to  swing, 
Beat  hemp  for  others,  riper  for  the  string : 
From  these  dire  scenes  ray  wretched  lines  I  date. 
To  tell  Maria  her  Esopus'  fate. 

♦*  Alas !  I  feel  I  am  no  actor  here !" 

'Tis  real  hangmen,  real  scourges  bear ! 

Prepare,  Maria,  for  a  horrid  tale 

Will  turn  thy  very  rouge  to  deadly  pale ; 

Will  make  thy  hair,  tho'  erst  from  gipsy  polled. 

By  barber  woven,  and  by  barber  sold. 

Though  twisted  smooth  with  Harry's  nicest  care. 

Like  hoary  bristles  to  erect  and  stare. 

The  hero  of  the  mimic  scene,  no  more 

I  start  in  Hamlet,  in  Othello  roar ; 

Or  haughty  Chieftain,  'mid  the  din  of  arms. 

In  Highland  bonnet  woo  Malvina's  charms  ; 

While  sans  culottes  stoop  up  the  mountain  high, 

And  steal  from  me  Maria's  prying  eye. 

Blest   Highland  bonnet !      Once   my   proudest 

dress. 
Now  prouder  still,  Maria's  temples  press. 
I  see  her  wave  thy  towering  plumes  afar, 
And  call  each  coxcomb  to  the  wordy  war. 
I  see  her  face  the  first  of  Ireland's  sons,' 
And  even  out-Irish  his  Hibernian  bronze; 
The  crafty  colonel ^  leaves  the  tartan'd  lines, 
For  other  wars,  where  he  a  hero  shines ; 

1  Captain  Gillespie. 


The  hopeful  youth,  in  Scottish  senate  bred, 
Who  owns  a  Bushby's  heart  without  the  head ; 
Comes,  'mid  a  string  of  coxcombs  to  display 
That  veni,  vidi,  vici,  is  his  way ; 
The  shrinking  bard  adown  the  alley  skulks, 
And   dreads  a  meeting  worse  thxn  Woolwich 

hulks ; 
Though  there,  his  heresies  in  church  and  state 
Might  well  award  him  Muir  and  Palmer's  fate ; 
Still  she  undaunted  reels  and  rattles  on. 
And  dares  the  public  like  a  noontide  sun. 
(What  scandal  call'd  Maria's  janty  stagger 
The  ricket  reeling  of  a  crooked  swagger, 
Whose  spleen  e'en  worse  than  Burns'  venom  when 
He  dips  in  gall  unmix'd  his  eager  pen, — 
And  pours  his  vengeance  in  the  burning  line. 
Who  christen'd  thus  Maria's  lyre  divine  ; 
The  idiot  strum  of  vanity  bemused. 
And  even  th'  abuse  of  poesy  abused ! 
Who  call'd  her  verse,  a  parish  workhouse  made 
For  motley  foundling  fancies,  stolen  or  stray'd  ?) 

A  workhouse !  ah,  that  sound  awakes  my  woes, 
And  pillows  on  the  thorn  my  rack'd  repose ! 
In  durance  vile  here  must  I  wake  and  weep. 
And  all  my  frowsy  couch  in  sorrow  steep ; 
That  straw  where  many  a  rogue  has  lain  of  yore, 
And  vermin'd  gipsies  litter'd  heretofore. 

Why,   Lonsdale,  thus    thy  wrath   on  vagrants 

pour? 
Must  earth  no  rascal  save  thyself  endure  ? 
Must  thou  alone  in  guilt  immortal  swell, 
And  make  a  vast  monopoly  of  hell  ? 
Thou  know'st,  the  virtues  cannot  hate  thee  worse. 
The  vices  also,  must  they  club  their  curse  ? 
Or  must  no  tiny  sin  to  others  fall. 
Because  thy  guilt's  supreme  enough  for  all  ? 

Maria,  send  me  too  thy  griefs  and  cares ; 
In  all  of  thee  sure  thy  Esopus  shares. 
As  thou  at  all  mankind  the  flag  unfurls. 
Who  on  my  fair  one  satire's  vengeance  hurls? 
Who  calls  thee,  pert,  aflfected,  vain  coquette, 
A  wit  in  folly,  and  a  fool  in  wit  ? 
Who  says,  that  fool  alone  is  not  thy  due. 
And  quotes  thy  treacheries  to  prove  it  true  ? 
Our  force  united  on  thy  foes  we'll  turn. 
And  dare  the  war  with  all  of  woman  born : 
For  who  can  write  and  speak  as  thou  and  I  ? 
My  periods  that  deciphering  defy, 
And  thy  still  matchless  tongue  that  conquers  all 
reply. 

2  Col.  Macdouall. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


18i) 


cxxxiv. 

POEM 
ON  PASTORAL  POETRY. 

[Though  Gilbert  Burns  says  there  is  some  doubt  of 
this  Poem  being  by  his  brother,  and  though  Robert  Cham- 
bers declares  that  he  "  has  scarcely  a  doubt  that  it  is  not 
bf  the  Ayrshire  Bard,"  I  must  print  it  as  his,  for  I  have 
no  doubt  on  the  subject.  It  was  found  among  the  papers 
of  the  poet,  in  his  own  handwriting:  the  second,  the 
fourth,  and  the  concluding  verses  bear  the  Burns'  stamp, 
which  no  one  has  been  successful  in  counterfeiting : 
they  resemble  the  verses  of  Beattie,  to  which  Chambers 
has  compared  them,  as  little  as  the  cry  of  the  eagle  re- 
lembles  the  chirp  of  the  wren.] 

Hail  Poesie  !  thou  Nymph  reserv'd! 

In  chase  o'  thee,  what  crowds  hae  swerv'd 

Frae  common  sense,  or  sunk  enerv'd 

'Mang  heaps  o'  clavers ; 
And  och !  o'er  aft  thy  joes  hae  starv'd 

Mid  a'  thy  favours  I 

Say,  Lassie,  why  thy  train  amang, 
While  loud  the  trump's  heroic  clang, 
And  sock  or  buskin  skelp  alang, 

To  death  or  marriage ; 
Scarce  ane  has  tried  the  shepherd-sang 

But  wi'  miscarriage  ? 

In  Homer's  craft  Jock  Milton  thrives; 
Eschylus'  pen  Will  Shakspeare  drives ; 
Wee  Pope,  the  knurlin,  'till  him  rives 

Horatian  fame ; 
In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 

Even  Sappho's  flame. 

But  thee,  Theocritus,  wha  matches  ? 
They're  no  herd's  ballats,  Maro's  catches ; 
Squire  Pope  but  busks  his  skinklin  patches 

0'  heathen  tatters ; 
I  pass  by  hunders,  nameless  wretches, 

That  ape  their  betters. 

In  this  braw  age  o'  wit  and  lear, 
Will  nane  the  Shepherd's  whistle  mair 
Blaw  sweetly  in  its  native  air 

And  rural  grace ; 
And  wi'  the  far-fam'd  Grecian  share 

A  rival  place  ? 

les!  there  is  ane;  a  Scottish  callan — 
There's  ane ;  come  forrit,  honest  Allan  1 
Thou  need  na  jouk  behint  the  hallan, 

A  chiel  sae  clever ; 
The  teeth  o'  time  may  gnaw  Tantallan, 

But  thou's  for  ever  I 


Thou  paints  auld  nature  to  the  nines, 

In  thy  sweet  Caledonian  lines  ; 

Nae  gowden  stream  thro'  myrtles  twines, 

Where  Philomel, 
While  nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vines, 

Her  griefs  will  tell  I 

In  gowany  glens  thy  burnie  strays, 
Where  bonnie  lasses  bleach  their  claes  ; 
Or  trots  by  hazelly  shaws  and  braes, 

Wi'  hawthorns  giay, 
Where  blackbirds  join  the  shepherd's  lays 

At  close  o'  day. 

Thy  rural  loves  are  nature's  sel' ; 
Nae  bombast  spates  o*  nonsense  swell ; 
Nae  snap  conceits,  but  that  sweet  spell 

0'  witchin'  love; 
That  charm  that  can  the  strongest  quell, 

The  sternest  move 


cxxxv. 

SONNET, 

WHITTBW    ON  THB    TWENTY-FIFTH    OF    JANVART,   1793, 

THB    BIKTHDAT    OF    THB    ATTTHOR,    ON    HBAKINO    A 

THKUSH  SING  IN  A  MORNING  WALK. 

[Burns  was  fond  of  a  saunter  in  a  leafless  wood,  when 
the  winter  storm  howled  among  the  branches.  These 
characteristic  lines  were  composed  on  the  morning  of  his 
birthday,  with  the  Nith  at  his  feet,  and  the  ruins  of 
Lincluden  at  his  side :  he  is  willing  to  accept  the  un- 
looked-for song  of  the  thrush  as  a  fortunate  omen.] 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough. 
Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain  : 
See,  aged  Winter,  'mid  his  surly  reign, 

At  thy  blythe  carol  clears  his  furrow'd  brow. 

So,  in  lone  Poverty's  dominion  drear. 

Sits  meek  Content  with  light  unanxious  heart, 
Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids  them  part, 

Nor  asks  if  they  bring  aught  to  hope  or  fear. 

I  thank  Thee,  Author  of  this  opening  day ! 

Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  yon  orient 
skies ! 

Riches  denied,  Thy  boon  was  purer  joys. 
What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away. 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care. 
The  mite  high  Heaven  bestow'd,  that  mite  witli 
thee  I'll  share. 


186 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


cxxxvi. 

SONNET, 

OS   THK 

DEATH  OF  ROBERT  RIDDEL,  ESQ. 

OF   QLENBIDDEL, 

Apkil,  1794. 

[The  death  of  Glencairn,  who  was  his  patron,  and  the 
death  of  Glenriddel,  who  was  his  friend,  and  had,  while 
he  lived  at  Ellisland,  been  his  neighbour,  weighed  hard 
on  the  mind  of  Burns,  who,  about  this  time,  began  to 
regard  his  o\\'ti  future  fortune  with  more  of  dismay  than 
of  hope.  Riddel  united  antiquarian  pursuits  with  those  of 
literature,  and  experienced  all  the  vulgar  prejudices  en- 
tertained by  the  peasantry  against  those  who  indulge  in 
such  researches.  His  collection  of  what  the  rustics  of 
the  vale  called  "queer  qualms  and  swine-troughs,"  is 
now  scattered  or  neglected :  I  have  heard  a  competent 
judge  say,  that  they  threw  light  on  both  the  public  and 
domestic  history  of  Scotland.] 

No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood — no  more ! 
Nor  pour  your  descant,  grating,  on  my  soul ; 
Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  verdant 
stole, 
More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Winter's  wildest 
roar. 

How  can  ye  charm,  ye  flow'rs,  with  all  your  dyes  ? 
Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my  friend : 
How  can  I  to  the  tuneful  strain  attend  ? 

That  strain  flows  round  th'  untimely  tomb  where 
Riddel  lies. 

Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  woe ! 
And  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  on  this  bier : 
The  Man  of  Worth,  who  has  not  left  his  peer, 

Is  in  his  "narrow  house"  for  ever  darkly  low. 

Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall  others  greet, 
Me,  mem'ry  of  my  loss  will  only  meet. 


CXXXVII. 

IMPROMPTU, 

ON  MRS.   R 'S   BIRTHDAY. 

[By  compliments  such  as  these  lines  contain,  Burns 
soothed  the  smart  which  his  verses  "  On  a  lady  famed 
for  her  caprice"  mflicted  on  the  accomplished  Mrs. 
Riddel.] 

Old  Winter,  with  his  frosty  beard, 

Thus  once  to  Jove  his  prayer  preferr'd, 


What  have  I  done  of  all  the  year, 
To  bear  this  hated  doom  severe  ? 
My  cheerless  suns  no  pleasure  know ; 
Night's  horrid  car  drags,  dreary,  slow ; 
My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crowning, 
But  spleeny  English,  hanging,  drowning. 

Now,  Jove,  for  once  be  mighty  civil, 

To  counterbalance  all  this  evil ; 

Give  me,  and  I've  no  more  to  say. 

Give  me  Maria's  natal  day ! 

That  brilliant  gift  shall  so  enrich  me, 

Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  cannot  match  me ; 

'Tis  done !  says  Jove ;  so  ends  my  story, 

And  Winter  once  rejoic'd  in  glory. 


cxxxvni. 

LIBERTY. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

[Fragments  of  verse  were  numerous,  Dr.  Currie  said, 
among  the  loose  papers  of  the  poet.  These  lines  formed 
the  commencement  of  an  ode  commemorating  the  achieve- 
ment of  liberty  for  America,  under  the  directing  geniui 
of  Washington  and  Franklin.] 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 
Thee,  fam'd  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  song, 

To  thee  I  turn  with  swimming  eyes ; 
Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled  ? 
Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead  ! 

Beneath  the  hallow'd  turf  where  Wallace  lies! 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of  death ! 

Ye  babbling  winds,  in  silence  sweep  ; 

Disturb  not  ye  the  hero's  sleep. 
Nor  give  the  coward  secret  breath. 

Is  this  the  power  in  freedom's  war, 

That  wont  to  bid  the  battle  rage  ? 
Behold  that  eye  which  shot  immortal  hate, 

Crushing  the  despot's  proudest  bearing ! 


CXXXIX. 

VERSES 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

[This  young    lady  was  the  daughter  of  the  poet  ■ 
friend,  Graham  of  Fintray ;  and  the  gift  alluced  to  was  a 


OF  KOBEKT   BURNS. 


187 


copy  of  George  Thomson's  Select  Scottish  Songs:  a 
vrork  which  owes  many  attractions  to  the  lyric  genius  of 
Burns.] 

Heee^  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives, 
J 3.  fcacred  strains  and  tuneful  numbers  join' d, 

Accept  the  gift ; — tho'  humble  he  who  gives, 
Eich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind. 

So  may  no  ruffian  feeling  in  thy  breast, 
Discordant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among; 

But  peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest. 
Or  love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song. 

Or  pity's  notes  in  luxury  of  tears, 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  woe  reveals ; 

While  conscious  virtue  all  the  strain  endears. 
And  heaven-bora  piety  her  sanction  seals. 


CXL. 


THE  VOWELS. 


[Bums  admired  genius  adorned  by  learning;  but  mere 
learning  without  genius  he  always  regarded  as  pedantry. 
Those  critics  who  scrupled  too  much  about  words  he 
called  eunuclis  of  literature,  and  to  one,  who  taxed  hira 
witli  writing  obscure  language  in  questionable  grammar, 
he  said,  "  Thou  art  but  a  Gretna-green  match-maker  be- 
tween vowels  and  consonants ! "] 

'TwAS  where  the  birch  and  sounding  thong  are 

The  noisy  domicile  of  pedant  pride ; 

Where  ignorance  her  darkening  vapour  throws, 

And  cruelty  directs  the  thickening  blows ; 

Upon  a  time,  Sir  Abece  the  great, 

In  all  his  pedagogic  powers  elate. 

His  awful  chair  of  state  resolves  to  mount, 

And  call  the  trembling  vowels  to  account. — 

First  enter'd  A,  a  grave,  broad,  solemn  wight, 
But,  ah !  deform'd,  dishonest  to  the  sight  1 
His  twisted  head  look'd  backward  on  the  way, 
And  flagrant  from  the  scourge  he  grunted,  ail 

Reluctant,  E  stalk'd  in ;  with  piteous  race 
The  justling  tears  ran  down  his  honest  facel 
That  name !  that  well-worn  name,  and  all  his 

own, 
Pale  he  surrenders  at  the  tyrant's  throne  1 
The  pedant  stifles  keen  the  Roman  sound 
Not  all  his  mongrel  diphthongs  can  compound; 


And  next  the  title  following  close  behind, 
He  to  the  nameless,  ghastly  wretch  assign' d. 

The  cobweb'd  gothic  dome  resounded  Y ! 
In  sullen  vengeance,  I,  disdain'd  reply  : 
The  pedant  swung  his  felon  cudgel  round, 
And  knock'd  the  groaning  vowel  to  the  ground 

In  rueful  apprehension  enter'd  0, 
The  wailing  minstrel  of  despairing  woe ; 
Th'  Inquisitor  of  Spain  the  most  expert 
Might  there  have  learnt  new  mysteries  of  his  art^ 
So  grim,  deform'd,  with  horrors  entering  U, 
His  dearest  friend  and  brother  scarcely  knew  I 

As  trembling  IT  stood  staring  all  aghast. 
The  pedant  in  his  left  hand  clutched  him  fast. 
In  helpless  infants'  tears  he  dipp'd  his  right, 
Baptiz'd  him  eu,  and  kick'd  him  from  his  sight 


CXLI. 

VERSES 

TO  JOHN  RANKIN E. 

[With  the  "  rough,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine,"  of 
Adam-hill,  in  Ayrshire,  Burns  kept  up  a  will  o'-wispish 
sort  of  a  correspondence  in  rhyme,  till  the  day  of  hii 
death :  these  communications,  of  which  this  is  one,  were 
sometimes  graceless,  but  always  witty.  It  is  supposed 
that  these  lines  were  suggested  by  Falstaff's  account 
of  his  ragged  recruits : — 

"I'll  not  march  through  Coventry  with  them,  that's 
flat!"] 

Ae  day,  as  Death,  that  grusome  carl, 
Was  driving  to  the  tither  warl* 
A  mixtie-maxtie  motley  squad. 
And  mony  a  guilt-bespotted  lad ; 
Black  gowns  of  each  denomination. 
And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station. 
From  him  that  wears  the  star  and  garter, 
To  him  that  wintles  in  a  halter : 
Asham'd  himsel'  to  see  the  wretches, 
He  mutters,  glowrin'  at  the  bitches, 
"  By  Q — d,  I'll  not  be  seen  behint  them. 
Nor  'mang  the  sp'ritual  core  present  them. 
Without,  at  least,  ae  honest  man. 
To  grace  this  d — d  infernal  clan." 
By  Adamhill  a  glance  he  threw, 
*' L — d  G — d I"  quoth  he,  "I  have  it  now, 
There's  just  the  man  I  want,  i'  faith !" 
And  quickly  stoppit  Rankiue's  breath. 


188 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


CXLII. 
ON  SENSIBILITY. 


IIT   DEAR  AND  MUCH  HONOURED  FRIEND,  MRS.  DUNLOP; 
OF  DUNLOP. 

[Tl  3S0  verses  were  occasioned,  it  is  said,  by  some 
Mutii  -.ents  contained  in  a  communication  from  Mrs.  Dun- 
(Op,  That  excellent  lady  was  sorely  tried  with  domestic 
tin  lotions  for  a  time,  and  to  these  lie  appears  to  allude; 
but  he  deadened  the  effect  of  his  sympathy,  when  he 
printed  the  stanzas  in  the  Museum,  changing  the  fourtk 
.ine  to, 

"Dearest  Nancy,  thou  canst  tell !" 
and  so  transferring  the  whole  to  another  heroine.] 

Sensibility  how  charming, 

Thou,  my  friend,  canst  truly  tell : 

But  distress  with  horrors  arming. 
Thou  hast  also  known  too  well. 

Fairest  flower,  behold  the  lily, 

Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray : 
Let  the  blast  sweep  o'er  the  valley, 

See  it  prostrate  on  the  clay. 

Hear  the  wood-lark  charm  the  forest, 

Telling  o'er  his  little  joys  : 
Hapless  bird !  a  prey  the  surest, 

To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought,  the  hidden  treasure, 

Finer  feeling  can  bestow  ; 
Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure, 

Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe. 


Mine  was  th'  insensate  frenzied  part. 
Ah,  why  should  I  such  scenes  outlive 

Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart  I 
'Tie  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


CXLIII. 
LINES, 

SBNT  TO  A   GENTLEMAN   WHOM    HE    HAD 
OFFENDED. 

[The  too  hospitable  board  of  Mrs.  Riddel  occasioned 
these  repentant  strains:  they  were  accepted  as  they 
were  meant  by  the  party.  The  poet  had.  it  seems,  not 
only  spoke  of  mere  titles  and  rank  with' disrespect,  but 
had  all')wed  his  tongue  unbridled  license  of  speech,  on 
ihe  clai  n  of  political  importance,  and  domestic  equality, 
which  Alary  Wolstonecroft  and  her  followers  patron- 
ized, at  which  Mrs.  Riddel  affected  to  be  grievously  of- 
fended.] 

The  friend  whom  wild  from  wisdom's  way, 
The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send  ; 

(Not  moony  madness  more  astray;) 
Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend  ? 


CXLIV. 
ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN   BY  MISS   FONTENELLE   ON  HER  BliIiJSFIT 
NIGHT. 

[This  address  was  spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle,  at  th« 
Dumfries  theatre,  on  the  4th  of  December,  1795.] 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour, 
And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night  than  ever, 
A  Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some  such  matter, 
'Twould  vamp  my  bill,  said  I,  if  nothing  better; 
So  sought  a  Poet,  roosted  near  the  skies, 
Told  him  I  came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes ; 
Said  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever  printed ; 
And  last,  my  Prologue-business  slyly  hinted! 
"Ma'am,  let  me  tell  you,!'  quoth  my  man  of 

rhymes, 
"I  know  your  bent — these  are  no  laughing 

times : 
Can  you — but.  Miss,  I  own  I  have  my  fears, 
Dissolve  in  pause — and  sentimental  tears ; 
With  laden  sighs,  and  solemn-rounded  sentence, 
Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers,  fell  Repent- 
ance; 
Paint  "Vengeance  as  he  takes  his  horrid  stand. 
Waving  on  high  the  desolating  brand, 
Calling  the  storms  to  bear  him  o'er  a  guilty 
land?" 

I  could  no  more — askance  the  creature  eyeing, 

D'ye  think,  said  I,  this  face  was  made  for  cry- 
ing? 

I'll  laugh,  that's  poz — nay  more,  the  world  shall 
know  it ; 

And  so  your  servant !  gloomy  Master  Poet ! 

Firm  as  my  creed.  Sirs,  'tis  my  fix'd  belief, 

That  Misery's  another  word  for  Grief; 

I  also  think — so  may  I  be  a  bride ! 

That  so  much  laughter,  so  much  life  enjoy'd. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless  sigh, 
Still  under  bleak  Misfortune's  blasting  eye ; 
Doom'd  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive — 
To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of  five : 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS. 


185 


Laugh  in  Misfortune's  face — the  beldam  'witch ! 
Bay,  you'll  be  merry,  tho'  you  can't  be  rich. 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  love, 
Who  long  with  jlltish  arts  and  airs  hast  strove ; 
Who,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  project, 
Measur'st  in  desperate  thought — a  rope — thy 

neck — 
Or,  where  the  beetling  cliff  o'erhangs  the  deep, 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap : 
Would'st  thou  be  cur'd,  thou  silly,  moping  elf  ? 
Laugh  at  their  follies — laugh  e'en  at  thyself: 
Learn  to  despise  those  frowns  now  so  terrific. 
And  love  a  kinder — that's  your  grand  specific. 

To  sum  up  all,  be  merry,  I  advise ; 

4nd  as  we're  merry,  may  we  still  be  wise. 


CXLV. 


ON 


SEEING  MISS   FONTENELLE 

IN  A  FAVOURITE   CHARACTER. 

[The  good  looks  and  the  natural  acting  of  Miss  Fon- 
lenelle  pleased  others  as  well  as  Burns.  I  know  not  to 
what  character  in  the  range  of  her  personations  he 
alludes :  she  was  a  favourite  on  the  Dumfries  boards.] 

Sweet  naivete  of  feature, 

Simple,  wild,  enchanting  elf. 
Not  to  thee,  but  thanks  to  nature, 

Ttou  art  acting  but  thyself. 

Wert  thou  awkward,  stiff,  affected. 
Spurning  nature,  torturing  art ; 

Loves  and  graces  all  rejected. 
Then  indeed  thou'dst  act  a  part. 
R.  B. 


OXLVI. 

TOCHLORIS. 

[Chloris  was  a  Nithsdale  beauty.  Love  and  aorrow 
w^ere  strongly  mingled  in  her  early  history  :  that  she  did 
not  look  so  lovely  in  other  eyes  as  she  did  m  those  of 
Burns  is  well  known  :  but  he  had  much  of  the  taste  of 
an  artist,  and  admired  the  elegance  of  her  form,  and  the 
harmony  of  her  motion,  as  much  as  he  did  her  blooming 
face  and  sweet  voice.] 

'Tis  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young,  fair  friend, 
Nor  thoa  the  gift  refuse, 


Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 
The  moralizing  muse. 

Since  thou  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms. 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu, 
(A  world  'gainst  peace  in  constant  arms) 

To  join  the  friendly  few. 

Since,  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o'ercast. 
Chill  came  the  tempest's  lower ; 

(And  ne'er  misfortune's  eastern  blast 
Did  nip  a  fairer  flower.) 

Since  life's  gay  scenes  must  charm  no  mora, 

Still  much  is  left  behind ; 
Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store— 

The  comforts  of  the  mind ! 

Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow. 

On  conscious  honour's  part ; 
And,  dearest  gift  of  heaven  below. 

Thine  friendship's  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refin'd  of  sense  and  taste. 

With  every  muse  to  rove : 
And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest, 

These  joys  could  he  improve. 


cxLvn. 

POETICAL  INSCRIPTION 

FOB  AN  ALTAE  TO  INDEPENDENCE. 

[It  was  the  fashion  of  the  feverish  times  of  the  French 
Revolution  to  plant  trees  of  Liberty,  and  raise  altars  to 
Independence.  Heron  of  Kerrouglitree,  a  gentleman 
widely  esteemed  in  Galloway,  was  about  to  engage  in 
an  election  contest,  and  these  noble  lines  served  the  pur- 
pose of  announcing  the  candidate's  sentiments  on  free- 
dom.] 

Thou  of  an  independent  mind, 

With  soul  resolv'd,  with  soul  resign'd ; 

Prepar'd  Power's  proudest  frown  to  braT», 

Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a  slave ; 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere. 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear, 

Approach  this  shrine,  and  worship  here. 


190 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


CXLVIII. 

THE   HERON  BALLADS. 

[ballad  fikst.] 

[Tliis  is  the  first  of  several  party  ballads  which  Burns 
wrote  to  serve  Patrick  Heron,  of  Kerroughtree,  in  two 
elections  for  the  Stewartry  of  Kirkcudbright,  in  which 
'lo  was  opposed,  first,  by  Gordon  of  Balmaghie,  and 
tecnndly,  by  the  Hon.  Montgomery  Stewart.  There  is  a 
personal  bitterness  in  these  lampoons,  which  did  not 
mingle  with  the  strains  in  which  the  poet  recorded  the 
contest  between  Miller  and  Johnstone.  They  are  printed 
here  as  matters  of  poetry,  and  I  feel  sure  that  none  will 
je  displeased,  and  some  will  smile.] 


Whom  will  you  send  to  London  town, 

To  Parliament  and  a'  that  ? 
Or  wha  in  a'  the  country  round 
The  best  deserves  to  fa'  that  ? 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
Thro  Galloway  and  a'  that ; 
Where  is  the  laird  or  belted  knight 
That  best  deserves  to  fa'  that  ? 


Wha  sees  Kerroughtree' s  open  yett. 

And  wha  is't  never  saw  that  ? 

Wha  ever  wi'  Kerroughtree  meets 

And  has  a  doubt  of  a'  that  ? 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that, 
The  independent  patriot, 
The  honest  man,  an'  a'  that. 

III. 

Tho'  wit  and  worth  in  either  sex, 
St.  Mary's  Isle  can  shaw  that ; 
Wi'  dukes  and  lords  let  Selkirk  mix, 
And  weel  does  Selkirk  fa'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that ! 
The  independent  commoner 
Shall  be  the  man  for  a'  that. 


But  why  should  we  to  nobles  jouk, 

And  it's  against  the  law  that ; 
For  why,  a  lord  may  be  a  gouk, 
Wi'  ribbon,  star,  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that  I 
A  lord  may  be  a  lousy  loun, 
Wi'  ribbon,  star,  an'  a'  that. 


T. 

A  beardless  boy  comes  o'er  the  hills, 

Wi'  uncle's  purse  an'  a'  that ; 
But  we'll  hae  ane  frae  'mang  oursels, 
A  man  we  ken,  an'  a'  that. 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that  I 
For  we're  not  to  be  bought  an'  sold 
Like  naigs^  an'  nowt,  an'  a'  that. 


Then  let  us  drink  the  Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's  laird,  an'  a'  that. 
Our  representative  to  be. 
For  weel  he's  worthy  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that. 
A  House  of  Commons  such  as  he. 
They  would  be  blest  that  saw  that 


CXLIX. 

THE   HERON  BALLADS. 

[ballad   second.] 

[In  this  ballad  the  poet  gathers  together,  after  the 
manner  of  "  Fy  !  let  us  a'  to  the  bridal,"  all  the  leading 
electors  of  the  Stewartry,  who  befriended  Heron,  or 
opposed  him;  and  draws  their  portraits  in  the  colours  of 
light  or  darkness,  according  to  the  complexion  of  their 
politics.  He  is  too  severe  in  most  instances,  and  in  some 
he  is  venomous.  On  the  Earl  of  Galloway's  family,  and 
on  the  Murrays  of  Broughton  and  Caillie,  as  well  as  on 
Bushby  of  Tinwaldowns,  he  pours  his  hottest  satire. 
But  words  which  are  unjust,  or  undeserved,  fall  off  their 
victims  like  rain-drops  from  a  wild-duck's  wing.  The 
Murrays  of  Broughton  and  Caillie  have  long  borne,  from 
the  vulgar,  the  stigma  of  treachery  to  the  cause  of  Prince 
Charles  Stewart :  from  such  infamy  the  family  is  wholly 
free :  the  traitor,  Murray,  was  of  a  race  now  extinct . 
and  while  he  Avas  betraying  the  cause  in  which  so  much 
noble  and  gallant  blood  was  shed,  Murray  of  Broughton 
and  Caillie  was  performing  the  duties  of  an  honourable 
and  loyal  man :  he  was,  like  his  great-grandson  now, 
representing  his  native  district  in  parliament.] 

THE   ELECTION. 


Fy,  let  us  a'  to  Kirkcudbright, 
For  there  will  be  bickerin'  there ; 

For  Murray's'  light  horse  are  to  muster, 
And  0,  how  the  heroes  will  swear  ! 


I  Murray,  of  Brooghton  and  Caillie. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        191 

An'  there  will  be  Murray  commander, 

An'  there  will  be  Buittle's^  apostle, 

And  Gordon'  the  battle  to  win ; 

Wha's  more  o'  the  black  than  the  blue ; 

Like  brothers  they'll  stand  by  each  other, 

An'  there  will  be  folk  from  St.  Mary's.^ 

Sae  knit  in  alliance  an'  kin. 

A  house  o'  great  merit  and  note, 

The  deil  ane  but  honours  them  highly,— 

II. 

The  deil  ane  will  gie  them  his  vote  I 

An'  there  will  be  black-lippit  Johnnie,^ 

The  tongue  o'  the  trump  to  them  a' ;  - 

VII. 

And  he  get  na  hell  for  his  haddin' 

An'  there  will  be  wealthy  young  Richard," 

The  deil  gets  na  justice  ava' ; 

Dame  Fortune  should  hing  by  the  neck ; 

And  there  will  Kempleton's  birkie, 

For  prodigal,  thriftless,  bestowing, 

A  boy  no  sae  black  at  the  bane. 

His  merit  had  won  him  respect : 

But,  as  for  his  fine  nabob  fortune, 

An'  there  will  be  rich  brother  nabobs, 

We'll  e'en  let  the  subject  alane. 

Tho'  nabobs,  yet  men  of  the  first. 

An'  there  will  be  Collieston's"  whiskers, 

III. 

An'  Quintin,  o'  lads  not  the  worst. 

A.n'  there  will  be  Wigton's  new  sheriflf. 

Dame  Justice  fu'  brawlie  has  sped. 

She's  gotten  the  heart  of  a  Bushby, 

VIII. 

But,  Lord,  what's  become  o'  the  head  ? 

An'  there  will  be  stamp-ofi&ce  Johnnie," 

An'  there  will  be  Cardoness,"  Esquire, 

Ttik'  tent  how  ye  purchase  a  dram ; 

Sae  mighty  in  Cardoness'  eyes  ; 

An'  there  will  be  gay  Cassencarrie, 

A  wight  that  will  weather  damnation. 

An'  there  will  be  gleg  Colonel  Tam; 

For  the  deyil  the  prey  will  despise 

An'  there  will  be  trusty  Kerroughtree,i3 

Whose  honour  was  ever  his  law. 

lY 

If  the  virtues  were  pack'd  in  a  parcel. 

An'  there  will  be  Douglasses'*  doughty, 

His  worth  might  be  sample  for  a'. 

New  christ'ning  towns  far  and  near ; 

Abjuring  their  democrat  doings. 

IX. 

By  kissing  the  —  o'  a  peer ; 

An'  can  we  forget  the  auld  major. 

An'  there  will  be  Kenmure^  sae  gen'rous, 

Wha'll  ne'er  be  forgot  in  the  Greys, 

Whose  honour  is  proof  to  the  storm. 

Our  flatt'ry  we'll  keep  for  some  other. 

To  save  them  from  stark  reprobation. 

Him  only  'tis  justice  to  praise. 

He  lent  them  his  name  to  the  firm. 

An'  there  will  be  maiden  Kilkerran, 

V. 

And  also  Barskimming's  gude  knight, 

An'  there  will  be  roarin'  Birtwhistle, 

But  we  winna  mention  Redcastle,^ 

The  body,  e'en  let  him  escape ! 

Wha  luckily  roars  in  the  right. 

He'd  venture  the  gallows  for  siller, 

An'  'twere  na  the  cost  o'  the  rape. 

X. 

An'  where  is  our  king's  lord  lieutenant, 

An'  there,  frae  the  Niddisdale  "borders, 

Sae  fam'd  for  his  gratefu'  return' 

Will  mingle  the  Maxwells  in  droves  ; 

The  billie  is  gettin'  his  questions, 

Teugh  Johnnie,  staunch  Geordie,  &.n'  Walie, 

To  say  in  St.  Stephen's  the  morn. 

That  griens  for  the  fishes  an'  loaves ; 

An'  there  will  be  Logan  Mac  Douall,»< 

TI. 

Sculdudd'ry  an'  he  will  be  there, 

An'  there  will  be  lads  o'  the  gospel, 

An'  also  the  wild  Scot  of  Galloway, 

Muirhead,''  wha's  as  gude  as  he's  true ; 

Sodgerin',  gunpowder  Blair. 

1  Gordon  of  Balmaghie. 

8  The  Minister  of  Buittle. 

«  Bushb/,  of  Tinwald-downs. 

9  Earl  of  Selkirk's  family. 

8  M-axweil,  of  Cardoness. 

10  Oswald,  of  Auchuncruive. 

4  The  Douglasses,  of  Orchardtown  and  Castle-Doaglaa. 

11  Copland,  of  Collieston  and  Blackwood. 

«Jordon,  afterwards  Viscount  Kenmore. 

12  John  Syme,  of  the  Stamp-office. 

«  Laurie,  of  Redcaste. 

13  Heron,  of  Kerroughtree. 

T  Morehead,  Minister  of  Urr 

M  Colonel  Macdouall,  of  Logan. 

—     ■  — •'•i 

192                                   THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

XI. 

Here's  an  honest  conscience 

Then  hey  the  chaste  interest  o'  Broughton, 

Might  a  prince  adorn  ; 

An'  hey  for  the  blessings  'twill  bring  ? 

Frae  the  downs  o'  Tinwald — 3 

It  may  send  Balmaghie  to  the  Commons, 

So  was  never  worn. 

In  Sodom  'twould  make  him  a  king ; 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

An'  hey  for  the  sanctified  M y, 

Our  land  who  wi'  chapels  has  stor'd ; 

Here's  its  stuflf  and  lining. 

He  founder'd  his  horse  among  harlots, 

Cardoness'^  head ; 

But  gied  the  auld  naig  to  the  Lord. 

Fine  for  a  sodger 
A'  the  wale  o'  lead. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 
Here's  a  little  wadset 

Buittle's'  scrap  o'  truth, 

Pawn'd  in  a  gin-shop 

CL. 

Quenching  holy  drouth. 

THE  HERON  BALLADS. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

[ballad  thikd.] 

Here's  armorial  bearings 

[This  third  and  last  ballad  was  written  on  the  contest 

Frae  the  manse  o'  Urr  ;* 

Detween  Heron  and  Stewart,  which  followed  close  on 

The  crest,  an  auld  crab-apple 

that  with  Gordon.    Heron  carried  the  election,  but  was 

Rotten  at  the  core. 

unseated  by  the  decision  of  a  Committee  of  the  House 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

of  Commons  :  a  decision  which  it  is  said  he  took  so  much 

to  heart  that  it  affected  his  health,  and  shortened  his 
Jfe.] 

Here  is  Satan's  picture. 

Like  a  bizzard  gled, 

AN  EXCELLENT  NEW  SONG. 

Pouncing  poor  Redcastle,'' 

Tune. — '■^  Buy  broom  besoms." 

Sprawlin'  as  a  taed. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &o. 

Wha  will  buy  my  troggin, 

Fine  election  ware  ; 

Here's  the  worth  and  wisdom 

Broken  trade  o'  Broughton, 

ColliestonS  can  boast; 

A'  in  high  repair. 

By  a  thievish  midge 

Buy  braw  troggin, 

They  had  been  nearly  lost. 

Frae  the  banks  o'  Dee  ; 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &o. 

Wha  wants  troggin 

Let  him  come  to  me. 

Here  is  Murray's  fragments 

0'  the  ten  commands ; 

There's  a  noble  Earl's^ 

Gifted  by  black  Jocks 

Fame  and  high  renown 

To  get  them  aff  his  hands. 

For  an  auld  sang — 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &o. 

It's  thought  the  gudes  were  stown. 
Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Saw  ye  e'er  sic  troggin  ? 
If  to  buy  ye're  slack. 

Hornie's  turnin'  chapman. 

Here's  the  worth  o'  Broughton^ 

He'll  buy  a'  the  pack. 

In  a  needle's  ee  ; 

Buy  braw  troggin. 

Here's  a  reputation 

Frae  the  banks  o'  Dee ; 

Tint  by  Balmaghie. 

Wha  wants  troggin 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Let  him  come  to  me. 

1  The  Earl  of  Galloway. 

6Morehead,of  Urr. 

2  Murray,  of  Broughton  and  Caillie. 

7  Laurie,  of  Redcastle. 

3  Bushl.y,  of  Tinwald-downs. 

8  Copland,  of  CoUieston  and  Blackwood. 

4  Maxwell,  of  Cardoness. 
The  Minister  of  Bui  ttle. 

•  John  Bushby.  of  Tinwald-downa. 

OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


193 


CLI. 
POEM, 

▲DDRESSKD    TO         • 

MR.  MITCHELL,  COLLECTOR  OF  EXCISE. 

DUMFRIES,    1796. 

[The  gentleman  to  whom  this  very  modest,  and,  nnder 
the  circumstances,  most  adecting  application  for  his 
salary  was  made,  filled  the  office  of  Collector  of  Excise 
for  the  district,  and  was  of  a  kind  and  generous  nature  : 
but  few  were  aware  that  the  poet  was  suffering  both 
from  ill-health  and  poverty.] 

Friend  of  the  Poet,  tried  and  leal, 
Wha,  wanting  thee,  might  beg  or  steal ; 
Alake,  alake,  the  meikle  deil 

Wi'  a'  his  witches 
Aro  at  it,  skelpin'  jig  and  reel. 

In  my  poor  pouches  I 

I  modestly  fu*  fain  wad  hint  it, 
That  one  pound  one,  I  sairly  want  it, 
If  wi'  the  hizzie  down  ye  sent  it. 

It  would  be  kind ; 
And  while  my  heart  wi'  life-blood  dunted 

I'd  bear't  in  mind. 

So  may  the  auld  year  gang  out  moaning 
To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groaning, 
Wi'  double  plenty  o'er  the  loaniu 

To  thee  and  thine ; 
Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning 

The  hale  design. 


POSTSCRIPT. 
Yb'vb  heard  this  while  how  I've  been  licket, 
And  by  fell  death  was  nearly  nicket ; 
Grim  loon !  he  got  me  by  the  fecket. 

And  sair  me  sheuk ; 
But  by  guid  luck  I  lap  a  wicket, 

And  turn'd  a  neuk. 

But  by  that  health,  I've  got  a  share  o't, 
And  by  that  life,  I'm  promised  mair  o't, 
My  hale  and  weel  I'll  tak  a  care  o't, 

A  tentier  way : 
Then  farewell  folly,  hide  and  hair  o't, 

For  ance  and  aye  1 


13 


CUI. 


TO 


MISS   JESSY  LEWARS, 

DUMFRIES. 
WITH    JOHNSON'S    'MUSICAL    MPSEPM.' 

[Miss  Jessy  Lewars  watched  over  the  declining  days 
of  the  poet,  with  the  affectionate  reverence  of  a  daugh- 
ter: for  this  she  has  the  silent  gratitude  of  all  who  ad- 
mire the  genius  of  Burns  ;  she  has  received  more,  the 
thanks  ot  tne  poet  himself,  expressed  in  verses  not  des- 
tined soon  to  die.] 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessy  fair, 
And  with  them  take  the  Poet's  prayer  ; 
That  fate  may  in  her  fairest  page. 
With  every  kindliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss,  enrol  thy  name  : 
With  native  worth  and  spotless  fame. 
And  wakeful  caution  still  aware 
Of  ill — but  chief,  man's  felon  snare ; 
All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find. 
And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind — 
These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward ; 
So  prays  thy  faithful  friend.  The  Bard. 
June  26,  1796. 


CLm. 

POEM    ON    LIFE, 

ADDBB8SBD  TO 

COLONEL    DE    PEYSTER. 

DUMFRIES,     1796. 

[This  is  supposed  to  be  the  last  Poem  written  hy  the 
hand,  or  conceived  by  the  muse  of  Burns.  The  person 
to  whom  it  is  addressed  was  Colonel  of  the  gentlemen 
Volunteers  of  Dumfries,  in  whose  ranks  Burns  was  a 
private:  he  was  a  Canadian  by  birth,  and  prided  him- 
self on  having  defended  Detroit,  against  the  united  efforts 
of  the  French  and  Americans.  He  was  rough  and  aus- 
tere, and  thought  the  science  of  war  the  noblest  of  all  sci- 
ences :  he  affected  a  taste  for  literature,  and  wrote  verees. 

My  honoured  colonel,  deep  I  feel 
Your  interest  in  the  Poet's  weal ; 
Ah !  now  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  speel 

The  steep  Parnassus, 
Surrounded  thus  by  bolus,  pill. 

And  potion  glasses. 

0  what  a  canty  warld  were  it, 
Would  pain  and  care  and  sickness  spare  it; 
And  fortune  favour  worth  and  merit. 
As  they  deserve  I 
(And  aye  a  rowth,  roast  beef  and  claret ; 

wha  w»d  starve  ?) 


194 


THE   POETICAL  WOKKS 


Dame  Life,  tho'  fiction  out  may  trick  her, 

Poor  man,  the  flie,  aft  tizzes  bye. 

And  in  paste  gems  and  frippery  deck  her ; 

And  aft  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh, 

Oh !  flickering,  feeble,  and  unsicker 

Thy  auld  damn'd  elbow  yeuks  wi'  joy. 

I've  found  her  still, 

And  hellish  pleasure ; 

ky  wavering  like  the  willow-wicker, 

Already  in  thy  fancy's  eye, 

'Tween  good  and  ill. 

Thy  sicker  treasure  ♦ 

Then  that  curst  carmagnole,  auld  Satan, 

Soon  heels-o'er  gowdie !  in  he  gangs. 

Watches,  like  baudrons  by  a  rattan. 

And  like  a  sheep  head  on  a  tangs, 

Our  sinfu'  saul  to  get  a  claut  on 

Thy  girning  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 

Wi'  felon  ire ; 

And  murd'ring  wrestle, 

Syne,  whip !  his  tail  ye'll  ne'er  cast  saut  on — 

As,  dangling  in  the  wind,  he  hangs 

He's  aff  like  fire. 

A  gibbet's  tassel. 

Ah  Nick !  ah  Nick !  it  is  na  fair. 

But  lest  you  think  I  am  uncivil, 

First  shewing  us  the  tempting  ware. 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting  drivel, 

Bright  wines  and  bonnie  lasses  rare. 

Abjuring  a'  intentions  evil. 

To  put  us  daft ; 

I  quat  my  pen : 

Syne,  weave,  unseen,  thy  spider  snare 

The  Lord  preserve  us  frae  the  devil. 

0'  hell's  damn'd  waft. 

Amen !  amen  I 

EPITAPHS,  EPIGRAMS,  PEAGMENTS, 


ETC.,   ETC. 


ON    THE  AUTHOR'S  FATHER. 

[William  Burness  merited  his  son's  eulogiums:  he 
was  an  example  of  piety,  patience,  and  foi'titude.] 

0  YE  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains. 

Draw  near  with  pious  rev'rence  and  attend ! 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains. 

The  tender  father  and  the  gen'rous  friend. 
The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  woe ; 

The  dauntless  heart  that  feared  no  human 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe ;    [pride ; 

*'  For  ev'n  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side." 


n. 
ON  R.   A.,   ESQ. 


[Robert  Aiken,  Esq.,  to  whom  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night"  is  addressed:  a  kind  and  generous  man.] 

Know  thou,  0  stranger  to  the  fame 
Of  this  much  lov'd,  much  honour'd  name ! 
(For  none  that  knew  him  need  be  told) 
Awavmer  heart  death  ne'er  made  cold. 


in. 
ON  A  FRIEND. 

[The  name  of  this  friend  is  neither  mentioned  nor 
alluded  to  in  any  of  the  poet's  productions.] 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest 
As  e'er  God  with  his  image  blest ! 
The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth  ; 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  youth  ; 
Few  hearts  like  his,  with  virtue  warm'd. 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  inform'd  : 
If  there's  another  world,  he  lives  in  bliss ; 
If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of  this. 


IV. 
FOR  GAVIN   HAMILTON. 

[These  lines  allude  to  the  persecution  which  Hamilton 
endured  for  presuming  to  ride  on  Sunday,  and  say, 
"damn  it,"  in  the  presence  of  the  minister  of  Mauchline.^ 

The  poor  man  weeps — here  Gavin  sleeps. 
Whom  canting  wretches  blam'd : 

But  with  such  as  he,  where'er  he  be. 
May  I  be  sav'd  or  damn'd ! 


OF   ROBERT  BURNS.                                        19o 

V. 

VIII. 

ON  WEE  JOHNNY. 

ON  A  CELEBRATED  RULING  ELDER. 

HIC   JACET  WEB   JOHNNY. 

[Souter  Hood  obtained  tlie  distinction  of  this  Epigrans 

by  his  impertinent  inquiries  into  what  he  called  the 

[AVee  Johnny  was  John  Wilson,  printer  of  the  Kilmar- 

moral  .delinquencies  of  Burns.] 

•lock  edition  of  Burns's  Poems :  he  doubted  the  success  of 

the  speculation,  and  the  poet  punished  him  in  these  lines, 

Here  souter  Hood  in  death  does  sleep  ; — 

wJiicli  he  printed  unaware  of  their  meaning.] 

To  h— 11,  if  he's  gane  thither, 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  0  reader,  know, 

Satan,  gie  him  thy  gear  to  keep. 

That  death  has  murder'd  Johnny ! 

He'll  hand  it  weel  thegither. 

An'  here  his  body  lies  fu'  low — 

For  sanl  he  ne'er  had  ony. 

IX. 

VI. 

ON  A  NOISY  POLEMIC. 

ON  JOHN  DOVE, 

[This  noisy  polemic  was  a  mason  of  the  name  of  Jamei 

Humphrey :  he  astonished  Cromek  by  an  eloquent  dis- 

INNKEEPER,   MAUCHLINE. 

sertation  on  free  grace,  effectual-calling,  and  predestina- 

[John Dove  kept  the  Whitefoord  Arms  in  Mauchline  : 

tion.] 

his  religion  is  made  to  consist  of  a  comparative  appre- 

Below  thir  stanes  lie  Jamie's  banes  : 

eration  of  the  liquors  he  kept.] 

0  Death,  it's  my  opinion. 

Here  lies  Johnny  Pidgeon ; 

Thou  ne'er  took  such  a  blethrin'  h — ch 

What  was  his  religion  ? 

Into  thy  dark  dominion  ! 

Wha  e'er  desires  to  ken, 

To  some  other  warl' 

Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnny  Pidgeon  had  riane ! 

Strong  ale  was  ablution^ — 

X. 

Small  beer,  persecution, 
A  dram  was  memento  mori; 

ON  MISS  JEAN  SCOTT. 

But  a  full  flowing  bowl 

[The  heroine  of  these  complimentary  lines  lived  14 

Was  the  saving  his  soul. 

Ayr,  and  cheered  the  poet  with  her  sweet  voice,  as  wel. 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 

as  her  sweet  looks.] 

Oh  !  had  each  Scot  of  ancient  times, 

Been  Jeany  Scott,  as  thou  art. 

The  bravest  heart  on  English  ground 

Had  yielded  like  a  coward ! 

vn. 

ON  A  WAG  IN  MAUCHLINE. 

[This  laborious  and  useful  wag  was  the  «« Dear  Smith, 

Hiou  sleest  pawkie  thief,"  of  one  of  the  poet's  finest 

ipistles :  he  died  in  the  West  Indies.] 

ZI. 

Lament  him,  Mauchline  husbands  a'. 
He  aften  did  assist  ye  ; 

ON  A  HENPECKED  COUNTRY  SQUIRE. 

For  had  ye  staid  whole  weeks  awa, 

[Though  satisfied  with  the  severe  satire  of  theie  \ia»n 

Your  wives  they  ne'er  had  missed  ye. 

the  poet  made  a  second  attempt.] 

Ye  Mauchline  bairns,  as  on  ye  press 

As  father  Adam  first  was  fool'd. 

To  school  in  bands  thegither. 

i  case  that's  still  too  common. 

0  tread  ye  lightly  on  his  grass, — 

Here  lies  a  man  a  woman  rul'd, 

Perhaps  he  was  your  father. 

The  devil  rul'd  the  woman. 

1 

196 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


xn. 
ON  THE   SAME. 

[The  second  attempt  did  not  in  Burns's  fancy  exhaust 
Jbis  fruitful  subject :  he  tried  his  hand  again.] 

0  Death,  hadst  thou  but  spared  his  life, 

Whom  we  this  day  lament, 
We  freely  wad  exchang'd  the  wife, 

And  a'  been  weel  content ! 

Ev'n  as  he  is,  cauld  in  his  graflF", 

The  swap  we  yet  will  do't ; 
Take  thou  the  carlin's  carcase  aff, 

Thou'se  get  the  soul  to  boot. 


xin. 

ON  THE   SAME. 

[In  these  lines  he  bade  farewell  to  this  sordid  dame, 
who  lived,  it  is  said,  in  Netherplace,  near  Mauchline.] 

OxE  Queen  Artemisia,  as  old  stories  tell. 
When  depriv'd  of  her  husband  she  loved  so  well, 
In  respect  for  the  love  and  affection  he'd  show'd 

her, 
She  reduc'd  him  to  dust  and  she  drank  up  the 

powder. 
But  Queen  Netherplace,    of  a   difPrent   com- 
plexion. 
When  call'd  on  to  order  the  fun'ral  direction, 
Would  have  eat  her  dear  lord,  on  a  slender  pre- 
tence, 
Not  to  show  her  respect,  but  to  save  the  ex- 
pense. 


XIV. 
THE  HIGHLAND  WELCOME. 

[Bu.<ns  took  farewell  of  the  hoBpitalitiea  of  the  SOdt- 
i«h  Highlands  in  these  happy  lines.] 

When  Death's  dark  stream  I  ferry  o'er, 

A  time  that  surely  shall  come ; 
In  Heaven  itself  I'll  ask  no  more 

Than  just  a  Highland  welcome. 


XT. 

ON  WILLIAM   SMELLIE. 

[Smellie,  author  of  the  Philosophy  of  History,  a  iIb* 
gular  person,  of  ready  wit,  and  negligent  in  nothing  tavfl 
his  dress.] 

Shrewd  Willie  Smellie  to  Crochallan  came, 
The  old  cock'd  hat,  the  gray  surtout,  the  same; 
His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its  might, 
'Twas  four   long  nights   and   days  to  shaving 
night: 

His  uncomb'd  grizzly  locks  wild  staring,  thatch'd 
A  head  for  thought  profound  and   cJear,  un- 

match'd : 
Yet  tho'  his  caustic  wit  was  biting,  rude. 
His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and  good. 


XVI. 
VERSES 

WRITTEN   ON  A  WINDOW  OF   THB   INN    AT    CABROM. 

[These  lines  were  written  on  receiving  what  the  poet 
considered  an  uncivil  refusal  to  look  at  the  works  of  th« 
celebrated  Carron  foundry.] 

We  came  na  here  to  view  your  warks 

In  hopes  to  be  mair  wise. 
But  only,  lest  we  gang  to  heU, 

It  may  be  nae  surprise  : 

For  whan  we  tirl'd  at  your  door. 
Your  porter  dought  na  hear  us  ; 

Sae  may,  shou'd  we  to  hell's  yetts  come 
Your  billy  Satan  sair  us  ! 


xvn. 

THE  BOOK-WORMS. 

[Burns  wrote  this  reproof  In  a  Shakspeare,  which  a4 
found  splendidly  bound  and  gilt,  but  unread  and  worm- 
eaten,  in  a  noble  person's  library.] 

Through  and  through  the  inspir'd  leaves. 

Ye  maggots,  make  your  windings  ; 
But  oh !  respect  his  lordship's  taste, 

And  spare  his  golden  bindings. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


11)- 


XVIII. 
LINES  ON  STIRLING. 

[On  visiting  Stirling,  Burns  was  stung  at  beholding 
Bothing  but  desolation  in  the  palaces  of  our  princes  and 
our  lialls  of  legislation,  and  vented  his  indignation  in 
these  unloyai  lines :  some  one  has  said  that  they  were 
written  by  his  companion,  Nieol,  but  this  wants  con- 
firmation.] 

Here  Stuarts  once  in  glory  reign'd, 

And  laws  for  Scotland's  weal  ordain'd ; 

But  now  unroofd  their  palace  stands, 

Their  sceptre's  sway'd  by  other  hands  ; 

The  injured  Stuart  line  is  gone, 

A  race  outlandish  fills  their  throne  ; 

An  idiot  race,  to  honour  lost ; 

Who  know  them  best  despise  them  most. 


XIX. 

THE  REPROOF. 

[The  imprudence  of  making  the  lines  written  at  Stir- 
ling public  was  hinted  to  Burns  by  a  friend  j  he  said,  "  Oh, 
but  I  mean  to  reprove  myself  for  it,"  which  he  did  in 
these  words.] 

Rash  mortal,  and  slanderous  Poet,  thy  name 
Shall  no  longer  appear  in  the  records  of  fame  ; 
Dost  not  know  that  old  Mansfield,  who  writes 

like  the  Bible, 
Says  the  more  'tis  a  truth.  Sir,  the  more  'tis  a 

Ubel? 


XX. 

THE  REPLY. 


[The  minister  of  Gladsmuir  wrote  a  censure  on  the 
Stirling  lines,  intimating,  as  a  priest,  that  Bums's  race 
was  nigh  run,  and  as  a  prophet,  that  oblivion  awaited 
Lis  muse.    The  poet  replied  to  the  expostulation.] 

Like  Esop's  lion,  Burns  says,  sore  I  feel 
All  others'  scorn — but  damn  that  ass's  heel. 


xn. 

LINES 


WRITT«W  VNDCU    THE  PICTITRK  0»    TH«  CSLKBaATBD 
MISS   BURNS. 

[The  Miss  Burns  of  these  lines  was  well  known  In 
Ihose  days  to  the  bucks  of  the  Scottish  metropolis :  tliere 
is  still  a  letter  by  the  pjet,  claiming  from  the  magis-  i 


trates  of  Edinburgh  a  liberal  interpretation  of  the  laws  ol 
social  morality,  in  behalf  of  his  fair  namesake.] 

Cease,  ye  prudes,  your  envious  railings, 
Lovely  Burns  has  charms — confess : 

True  it  is,  she  had  one  failing — 
Had  a  woman  ever  less  ? 


XXII. 

EXTEMPORE  IN  THE  COURT  OF  SESSION. 

[1  hese  portraits  are  strongly  coloured  with  the  par- 
tialities of  the  poet :  Oundas  had  ofiended  his  pride, 
Erskue  had  pleased  his  vanity ;  and  as  he  felt  he  spoke.] 

LORD    ADVOCATE. 

He  clench'd  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist, 

He  quoted  and  he  hinted, 
'Till  in  a  declamation-mist 

His  argument  he  tint  it : 
He  gaped  for't,  he  grap'd  for't, 

He  fand  it  was  awa,  man  ; 
But  what  his  common  sense  came  short 

He  eked  out  wi'  law,  man. 

MR.    ERSKINB. 

Collected  Harry  stood  awee. 

Then  open'd  out  his  arm,  man : 
His  lordship  sat  wi'  rueful  e'e. 

And  ey'd  the  gathering  storm,  man; 
Like  wiud-driv'n  hail  it  did  assail. 

Or  torrents  owre  a  linn,  man ; 
The  Bench  sae  wise  lift  up  their  eyes, 

Half-wauken'd  wi'  the  din,  man. 


XXIII. 
THE   HENPECKED   HUSBAND. 

[A  lady  who  expressed  herself  with  incivility  about 
her  husband's  potations  with  Bums,  was  rewarded  by 
these  sharp  lines.] 

Cttrs'd  be  the  man,  the  poorest  wretch  in  life, 
The  crouching  vassal  to  the  tyrant  wife ! 
Who  has  no  will  but  by  her  high  permission; 
Who  has  not  sixpence  but  in  her  possession ; 
Who  must  to  her  his  dear  friend's  secret  tell ; 
Who  dreads  a  curtain  lecture  worse  than  helli 
Were  such  the  wife  had  fallen  to  my  part, 
I'd  break  her  spirit,  or  I'd  break  her  heart ; 
I'd  charm  her  with  the  magic  of  a  switch, 
I'd  kiss  her  maids,  and  kick  the  perverse  b — ^k 


198 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


XXIV. 

WRITTEN  AT  INVERART. 

[Neglected  at  the  inn  of  Inverary,  on  account  of  the 
presence  of  some  northe.:n  chiefs,  and  overlooked  by  his 
Grace  of  Argyll,  the  poet  let  loose  his  wrath  and  his 
rhyme  :  tradition  speaks  of  a  pursuit  which  took  place 
on  the  part  of  the  Campbell,  when  he  was  told  of  his 
mistake,  and  of  a  resolution  not  to  be  soothed  on  the 
part  of  the  bard.] 

Whoe'er  he  be  that  sojourns  here, 

I  pity  much  his  case, 
Unless  he's  come  to  wait  upon 

The  Lord  their  God,  his  Grace. 

There's  naething  here  but  Highland  pride 
And  Highland  cauld  and  hunger ; 

If  Providence  has  sent  me  here, 
'Twas  surely  in  his  anger. 


XXV. 

ON  ELPHINSTON'S  TRANSLATIONS 

OF 

mabtial's  epiobams. 

[Burns  thus  relates  the  origin  of  this  sally : — 
"  Stopping  at  a  merchant's  shop  in  Edinburgh,  a 
friend  of  mine  one  day  put  Elphinston's  Translation  of 
Martial  into  my  hand,  and  desired  my  opinion  of  it.  I 
asked  permission  to  write  my  opinion  on  a  blank  leaf  of 
the  book ;  which  being  granted,  I  wrote  this  epigram.] 

0  THOU,  whom  poesy  abhors. 
Whom  prose  has  turned  out  of  doors, 
Heard'st  thou  that  groan  ?  proceed  no  further ; 
'Twas  laurell'd  Martial  roaring  murtherl 


XXVI. 

INSCRIPTION, 

ON  THE  HEADSTONE  OF  FEBQUSSON. 

[Some  social  friends,  whose  good  feelings  were  better 
than  their  taste,  have  ornamented  with  supplemental 
Iroa  woik  the  headstone  which  Burns  erected,  with  this 
useription  to  the  memory  of  his  brother  bard,  Fer- 
gusBon.; 

Here  lies 
Robert  Fergcsson,  Poet. 
Born,  September  5,  1751; 
Died,  Oct.  15,  1774. 

No  sculptured  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
"  No  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust ;" 

this  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia's  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  poet's  dust. 


XXVII. 

ON  A  SCHOOLMASTER. 

[The  Willie  Michie  of  this  epigram  was,  it  is  aaid, 
schoolmaster  of  the  parish  of  Cleish,  in  Fifeshire :  li« 
met  Burns  during  his  first  visit  to  Edinburgh.] 

Hebe  lie  Willie  Michie's  banes ; 

0,  Satan !  when  ye  tak'  him, 
Gi'  him  the  schoolin'  o'  your  weans, 

For  clever  de'ils  he'll  mak'  them. 


XXVIII. 
A  GRACE  BEFORE  DINNER. 

[This  was  an  extempore  grace,  pronounced  by  the 
poet  at  a  dinner-table,  in  Dumfries:  he  was  ever  ready 
to  contribute  the  small  change  of  rhyme,  for  either  the 
use  or  amusement  of  a  company.] 

0  Thou,  who  kindly  dost  provide 

For  every  creature's  want ! 
We  bless  thee,  God  of  Nature  wide, 

For  all  thy  goodness  lent : 
And  if  it  please  thee,  Heavenly  Guide, 

May  never  worse  be  sent ; 
But,  whether  granted  or  denied. 

Lord  bless  us  with  content ! 

Amen. 


XXIX. 

A  GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT. 

[Pronounced,  tradition  says,  at  the  table  of  Mrs.  Rid« 

del,  of  Woodleigh-Park.] 

0  Thou  in  whom  we  live  and  move, 

Who  mad'st  the  sea  and  shore, 
Thy  goodness  constantly  we  prove. 

And  grateful  would  adore. 
And  if  it  please  thee,  Power  above. 

Still  grant  us  with  such  store, 
The  friend  we  trust,  the  fair  we  love. 

And  we  desire  no  more. 


ON  WAT. 

[The  name  of  the  object  of  this  fierce  epigram  mighl 
be  found,  but  in  gratifying  curiosity,  some  pain  would  hf 
inflicted.] 

Sic  a  reptile  was  Wat, 
Sic  a  miscreant  slave. 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS. 


199 


That  the  very  worms  damn'd  him 
When  laid  in  his  grave. 

"  In  his  flesh  there's  a  famine," 
A  starv'd  reptile  cries ; 

"  An'  his  heart  is  rank  poison," 
Another  replies. 


XXXI. 

ON  CAPTAIN  FRANCIS  GROSE. 

[This  was  a  festive  sally :  it  is  said  that  Grose,  who 
was  very  fat,  though  he  joined  in  the  laugh,  did  not  re- 
lish it.] 

The  devil  got  notice  that  Grose  was  a-dying, 
So  whip !    at  the  summons,  old  Satan  came 

flying ; 
But  when  he  approach'd  where  poor  Francis  lay 

moaning, 
And  saw  each  bed-post  with  its  burden  a-groan- 

ing, 
Astonish'd!    confounded!    cry'd  Satan,    "By 

I'll  want  him,  ere  I  take  such  a  damnable  load!" 


xxxn. 

IMPROMPTU, 
TO  MISS  AINSLIE. 

[Those  lines  were  ofccasioned  by  a  sermon  on  sin,  to 
which  the  poet  and  Miss  Ainslie  of  Berrywell  had 
listened,  during  his  visit  to  the  border.] 

Fair  maid,  you  need  not  take  the  hint, 

Nor  idle  texts  pursue  : — 
•Twas  guilty  sinners  that  he  meant, 

Not  angels  such  as  you  I 


XXXIII. 

THE   KIRK  OF  LAMINGTON. 

[One  rough,  cold  day,  Burns  listened  to  a  sermon,  so 
ittle  to  his  liking,  in  the  kirk  of  Lamington,  in  Clydes- 
iale,  that  he  left  this  protest  on  the  seat  where  he  sat.] 

As  cauld  a  wind  as  ever  blew, 
As  caulder  kirk,  and  in't  but  few ; 
A.s  cauld  a  minister's  e'er  spak, 
Ye'se  a'  be  het  ere  I  come  back. 


XXXIV. 

THE  LEAGUE  AND  COVENANT. 

[In  answer  to  a  gentleman,  who  called  the  scfema 
League  and  Covenant  ridiculous  and  fanatical.] 

The  solemn  League  and  Covenant 
Cost  Scotland  blood — cost  Scotland  tears  ; 

But  it  sealed  freedom's  sacred  cause — 
If  thou'rt  a  slave,  indulge  thy  sneers. 


XXXV. 

WRITTEN  ON  A  PANE  OF  GLASS. 

IN   THE   INN   AT   MOFFAT. 

[A  friend  asked  the  poet  why  God  made  Miss  Davies 
BO  little,  and  a  lady  who  was  with  her,  so  large  :  before 
the  ladies,  who  had  just  passed  the  window,  were  out 
of  sight,  the  following  answer  was  recorded  on  a  pan« 
ot  glass.] 

Ask  why  God  made  the  gem  so  small, 
And  why  so  huge  the  granite  ? 

Because  God  meant  mankind  should  set 
The  higher  value  on  it. 


XXXVI. 
SPOKEN, 

OR  BKINS  APPOTXTED   TO   THB   EXCISE. 

[Bums  took  no  pleasure  in  the  name  of  gauger :  t 
situation  was  unworthy  of  him,  and  he  seldom  hesitated 
to  say  so.] 

Seaechino  auld  wives'  barrels, 

Och — hon !  the  day  ! 
That  clarty  barm  should  stain  my  laurels ; 

But — what'll  ye  say ! 
These  movin'  things  ca'd  wives  and  weans 
Wad  move  the  very  hearts  o'  stanes ! 


XXXVII. 

LINES   ON   MRS.    KEMBLE. 

[The  poet  wrote  these  lines  in  Mrs.  Riddel's  box  in  the 
Dumfries  Theatre,  in  the  winter  of  1794  :  he  was  muck 
moved  by  Mrs.  Kemble's  noble  and  pathetic  acting.] 

Kemble,  thou  cur'st  my  unbelief 

Of  Moses  and  his  rod ; 
At  Yarico's  sweet  notes  of  grief 

The  rock  with  tears  had  flow'd. 


200 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


XXXVIII. 

TO   MR.    SYME. 

[John  Syme,  of  Ryedule,  a  rhymer,  a  wit,  and  a  gentle- 
man of  education  and  intelligence,  was,  while  Burns 
resided  in  Dumfries,  his  chief  companion :  he  was  bred 
to  the  law. 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or  not, 
And  cook'ry  the  first  in  the  nation ; 

Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and  wit, 
Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 


XXXIX. 

TO  MR.  SYME. 

WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  A  DOZEN  OF  PORTER. 

[The  tavern  where  these  lines  were  written  was  kept 
by  a  wandering  mortal  of  the  name  of  Smith;  who, 
having  visited  in  some  capacity  or  other  the  Holy  Land, 
put  on  his  sign,  "  John  Smith,  from  Jerusalem."  He 
was  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Jerusalem  John.] 

0,  HAD  the  malt  thy  strength  of  inind, 

Or  hops  the  flavour  of  thy  wit, 
'Twere  drink  for  first  of  human  kind, 
A  gift  that  e'en  for  Syme  were  fit. 
Jerusalem  Tavern,  Dumfries. 


XL. 

A    GRACE. 

[This  Grace  was  spoken  at  the  table  of  Ryedale,  where 
to  tlie  best  cookery  was  added  the  richest  wine,  as  well 
as  the  rarest  wit :  Hyslop  was  a  distiller.] 

LoKD,  we  thank  and  thee  adore, 
For  temp'ral  gifts  we  little  merit ; 

At  present  we  will  ask  no  more, 
Let  William  Hyslop  give  the  spirit. 


XLI. 

INSCRIPTION  ON  A  GOBLET. 

[Written  on  a  dinner-goblet  by  the  hand  of  Burns. 
Byrne,  exasperated  at  having  his  set  of  crystal  defaced, 
Ihrewthe  goblet  under  the  grate  :  it  was  taken  up  by  his 
clerk,  and  it  is  still  preserved  as  a  curiosity.] 

There's  death  in  the  cup — sae  beware  ! 

Nay,  more — there  is  danger  in  touching ; 
But  wha  can  avoid  the  fell  snare  ? 

The  man  and  his  wine's  sae  bewitching ! 


XLII. 

THE   INVITATION. 

[Burns  had  a  happy  knack  in  acknowledging  civiJitiea 
these  lines  were  written  with  a  pencil  on  the  paper  ia 
wiiich  Mr8.Hyslop,ofLochrutton,  enclosed  an invitatioi 
to  dinner.] 

The  King's  most  humble  servant  I, 
Can  scarcely  spare  a  minute  ; 

But  I  am  yours  at  dinner-time. 
Or  else  the  devil's  in  it. 


XLni. 

THE  CREED  OF  POVERTY. 

[When  the  commissioners  of  Excise  told  Bums  that 
he  was  to  act,  and  not  to  think;  he  took  out  his  pencil 
and  wrote  "The  Creed  of  Poverty."] 

In  politics  if  thou  would'st  mix, 

And  mean  thy  fortunes  be  ; 
Bear  this  in  mind— be  deaf  and  blind ; 

Let  great  folks  hear  and  see. 


XLIV. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  POCKET-BOOK. 

[That  Burns  loved  liberty  and  sjTnpathized  with  those 
who  were  warring  in  its  cause,  these  lines,  and  hundredi 
more,  sufficiently  testify.] 

Gbant  me,  indulgent  Heav'n,  that  I  may  live 
To  see  the  miscreants  feel  the  pains  they  give. 
Deal  Freedom's  sacred  treasures  free  as  air, 
Till  slave  and  despot  foe  but  things  which  were. 


XLV. 

THE  PARSON'S  LOOKS. 

[Some  sarcastic  person  said,  in  Bums's  hearing,  that 
there  was  falsehood  in  the  Reverend  Dr.  Burnside'a 
ooks :  the  poet  mused  for  a  moment,  and  replied  in  linet 
which  have  less  of  truth  than  pomt.j 

That  there  is  falsehood  in  his  looks 

I  must  and  will  deny  ; 
They  say  their  master  is  a  knave— 

And  sure  they  do  not  lie. 


OF   ROBERT  BURNS. 


201 


XLVI. 

THE  TOAD-EATER. 

[This  reproof  was  administered  extempore  to  one  of 
the  guests  at  the  table  of  Maxwell,  of  Terraughty,  whose 
whole  talk  was  of  Dukes  with  whom  he  had  dined,  and 
of  ear. la  with  whom  he  had  supped.] 

What  of  earls  with  whom  you  have  supt, 
And  of  dukes  that  you  dined  with  yestreen  ? 

Lord  !  a  louse,  Sir,  is  still  but  a  louse, 
Though  it  crawl  on  the  curl  of  a  queen. 


XLvn. 

ON  ROBERT  RIDDEL. 

[J  copied  these  lines  from  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  Friars- 
Carse  Hermitage,  on  which  they  had  been  traced  with 
the  diamond  of  Burns.] 

To  Riddel,  much-lamented  man, 

This  ivied  cot  was  dear  ; 
Reader,  dost  value  matchless  worth  ? 

This  ivied  cot  revere. 


XLVm. 
THE    TOAST. 


[Burns  being  called  on  for  a  song,  by  his  brother  volun- 
teers, on  a  festive  occasion,  gave  the  following  Toast.] 

Instead  of  a  song,  boys,  I'll  give  you  a  toast — 
Here's  the  memory  of  those  on  the  twelfth  that 

we  lost ! — 
That  we  lost,  did  I  say  ?  nay,  by  Heav'n,  that 

we  found ; 
For  their  fame  it  shall  last  while  the  world  goes 

round. 
The  next  in  succession,  I'll  give  you — the  King  I 
Whoe'er  would  betray  him,  on  high  may  he 

swing ; 
And  here's  the  grand  fabric,  our  free  Constitu- 
tion, 
As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  Revolution ; 
And  longer  with  politics  not  to  be  craram'd. 
Be  Anarchy  curs'd,  and  be  Ty  anny  damn'd ; 
And  who  would  to  Liberty  e  or  prove  disloyal. 
May  his  son  be  a  hangman,  and  he  his  first 
vxial. 


XLIX. 
ON   A  PEKSON   NICKNAMED 

THE    MARQUIS. 

[.n  a  moment  when  vanity  prevailed  against  pmdenee^ 
this  person,  who  kept  a  respectable  public-housein  Dum 
fries,  desired  Bums  to  write  his  epitaph.] 

Herb  lies  a  mock  Marquis,  whose  titles  were 

shamm'd ; 
If  ever  he  rise,  it  will  be  to  bo  damn'd. 


LINES 

WBITTEN   ON  A  "WINDOW. 

[Bums  traced  these  words  with  a  diamond,  on  the 
window  of  the  King's  Arms  Tavern,  Dumfries,  as  a 
reply,  or  reproof,  to  one  who  had  been  witty  on  excise 
men.] 

Ye  men  of  wit  and  wealth,  why  all  this  sneer- 
ing 

'Gainst  poor  Excisemen  ?  give  the  cause  a  hear- 
ing; 

What  are  you,  landlords*  rent-rolls?  teasing 
ledgers : 

What  premiers — ^what  ?  even  monarchs*  mighty 
gangers : 

Nay,  what  are  priests,  those  seeming  godly  wise 
men? 

What  are  they,  pray,  but  spiritual  Excisemen  ? 


LI. 


LINES 

WSITTXN  ON  A  WIXDOW  OF  THS  GLOBS  TAVVKR, 
DUMrSISS. 

[The  Globe  Tavern  was  Buras's  favourite  "  Howff," 
as  he  called  it.  It  had  other  attractions  than  good 
liquor;  there  lived  "Anna,  with  the  golden  locks."] 


The  graybeard,  old  Wisdom,  may  boast  of  his 
treasures, 
Give  me  with  gay  Folly  to  live ; 
I  grant  him  his  calm-blooded,  time-settled  plea- 
sures. 
But  Folly  has  raptures  to  give. 


202 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


LII. 


THE   SELKIRK  GRACE. 

[On  a  visit  to  St.  Mary's  Isle,  Burns  was  requested  3y 
the  noble  owner  to  say  grace  to  dinner;  he  obeyed  in 
these  lines,  now  known  in  Galloway  by  the  name  of"  The 
Selkirk  Grace."] 

SoMK  hae  meat  and  canna  eat, 
And  some  wad  eat  that  want  it ; 

But  we  hae  meat  and  we  can  eat, 
And  sae  the  Lord  be  thanket. 


LHI. 

TO  DR.   MAXWELL, 
ON  JESSIE  STAIG'S  RECOVERY. 

[Maxwell  was  a  skilful  physician ;  and  Jessie  Staig,  the 
Provost's  eldest  daughter,  was  a  young  lady  of  great 
beauty  :  she  died  early.] 

Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave 

That  merit  I  deny, 
You  save  fair  Jessie  from  the  grave — 

An  angel  could  not  die. 


LIV. 

EPITAPH. 

[These  lines  were  traced  by  the  hand  of  Bums  on  a 
goblet  belonging  to  Gabriel  Richardson,  brewer,  in 
Dumfries:  it  is  carefully  preserved  in  the  family.] 

Here  brewer  Gabriel's  fire's  extinct, 

And  empty  all  his  barrels : 
He's  blest — if,  as  he  brew'd,  he  drink — 

In  upright  virtuous  morals. 


LV. 

EPITAPH 

ON  WILLIAM  NICOL. 

j^Nico.  was  a  sjholar,  of  ready  and  rough  wit,  who 
loved  a  joke  and  a  gill.] 

Yk  maggots,  feast  on  Nicol's  brain, 
For  few  sic  feasts  ye've  gotten ; 

And  fix  your  claws  in  Nicol's  heart, 
For  deil  a  bit  o't's  rotten. 


LVI. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LAP-DOG, 

NAMED    ECHO. 

[When  visiting  with  Syme  at  Kenmore  Castle,  Bumi 
wrote  this  Epitaph,  rather  reluctantly,  it  is  said,  at  the 
request  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  in  honour  of  her  lap 
dog.] 

In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng. 

Your  heavy  loss  deplore ; 
Now  half  extinct  your  powers  of  song, 

Sweet  Echo  is  no  more. 

Ye  jarring,  screeching  things  around, 
Scream  your  discordant  joys  ; 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  sound 
With  Echo  silent  lies. 


Lvn. 

ON  A  NOTED  COXCOMB. 

[Neither  Ayr,  Edinburgh,  nor  Dumfries  have  contested 
the  honour  of  producing  the  person  on  whom  these  lines 
were  written: — coxcombs  are  the  growth  of  all  dis- 
tricts.] 

Light  lay  the  earth  on  Willy's  breast, 

His  chicken-heart  so  tender ; 
But  build  a  castle  on  his  head. 

His  skull  will  prop  it  under. 


LVIII. 

ON   SEEING   THE   BEAUTIFUL   SEAT   OF 

LORD   GALLOWAY. 

[This,  and  the  three  succeeding  Epigrams,  are  hasty 
squibs  thrown  amid  the  tumult  of  a  contested  election, 
and  must  not  be  taken  as  the  fixed  and  deliberate  senti- 
ments of  the  poet,  regarding  an  ancient  and  noble  house.] 

What  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair  ? — 

Flit,  Galloway,  and  find 
Some  narrow,  dirty,  dungeon  cave, 

'i  h.e  picture  of  thy  mind  1 


OF   ROBERT  BURNS.                                      203 

LIX. 
ON  THE  SAME. 

Nc  Stewart  art  thou,  Galloway, 
The  Stewarts  all  were  brave ; 

Besides,  the  Stewarts  were  but  fools, 
Not  one  of  them  a  knav*. 

attorneys,  loved  to  handle  his  character  with  unsparing 
severity.] 

Herb  lies  John  Bushty,  honest  man ! 
Cheat  him.  Devil,  gin  ye  can. 

LXIV. 

LX. 

THE  TRUE  LOYAL  NATIVES. 

ON  THE  SAME. 

Bright  ran  thy  line,  0  Galloway, 
Thro'  many  a  far-fam'd  sire  ! 

So  ran  the  far-fam'd  Roman  way, 
So  ended  in  a  mire. 

[At  a  dinner-party,  where   politics  ran  high,  lines 
signed  by  men  who  called  themselves  the  true  loyal 
natives  of  Dumfries,  were  handed  to  Burns :  he  took  a 
pencil,  and  at  once  wrote  this  reply.] 

Ye  true  "  Loyal  Natives,"  attend  to  my  song, 
In  uproar  and  riot  rejoice  the  night  long  ; 
From  envy  or  hatred  your  corps  is  exempt. 
But  where  is  your  shield  from  the  darts  of  con^ 
tempt  ? 

LXI. 

TO  THE  SAME, 

ON    THB   AUTHOR    BEING     THREATENED    WITH    HIS 
RESENTMENT. 

Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  Galloway, 

In  quiet  let  me  live  : 
I  ask  no  kindness  at  thy  hand, 

LXV. 

ON  A  SUICIDE. 

For  thou  hast  none  to  give. 

[Bums  was  observed  by  my  friend,  Dr.  Copland  Hut- 
cnison,  to  fix,  one  morning,  a  bit  of  paper  on  the  grav« 
of  a  person  who  had  committed  suicide :  on  the  papei 
these  lines  were  pencilled.] 

LXII. 

ON    A  COUNTRY  LAIRD. 

[Mr.  Maxwell,  of  Cardoness,  afterwards  Sir  David, 
•xposed  himself  to  the  rhyming  wrath  of  Burns,  by  his 
ictivity  in  the  contested  elections  of  Heron.] 

Earth'd  up  here  lies  an  imp  o'  hell. 

Planted  by  Satan's  dibble- 
Poor  silly  wretch,  he's  damn'd  himsel' 
To  save  the  Lord  the  trouble. 

Bless  Jesus  Christ,  0  Cardoness, 

With  grateful  lifted  eyes, 
Who  said  that  not  the  soul  alone 

But  body  too,  must  rise  : 
For  had  he  said,  "the  soul  alone 

From  death  I  will  deliver;" 
Alas  !  alas !  0  Cardoness, 

Then  thou  hadst  slept  for  ever. 

LXVI. 
EXTEMPORE 

PINNED   ON   A  lady's   COACH. 

["  Printed,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  *'  frf  m  a  sopy 
in  Burns's  handwriting,"  a  (flight  alteration  in  the  last 
line  is  made  from  an  oral  version.] 

LXIII. 
ON  JOHN  BUSHBY. 

If  you  rattle  along  like  your  mistress's  tongue, 

Your  speed  will  outrival  the  dart : 
But,  a  fly  for  your  load,  you'll  break  down  on 

fBums,  in  his  harbhest  lampoons,  always  admitted  the 
Clients  of  Bushby :  the  peasantry,  who  hale  all  clever 

the  road 
If  your  stuff  has  the  rot,  like  her  heart. 

204 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


LXVII. 

LINES 
TO  JOHN  RANKIN E. 

[These  lines  were  snid  to  have  been  written  by  the 
poet  to  Rankine,  of  Adamhill,  with  orders  to  forward 
them  when  he  died.] 

He  who  of  Rankine  sang  lies  stiflF  and  dead, 
And  a  green  grassy  hillock  hides  his  head ; 
Alas !  alas !  a  devilish  change  indeed. 


Lxvm. 
JESSY  LEWARS. 

fNVritten  on  the  blank  side  of  a  list  of  wild  beasts,  exhi- 
biting in  Dumfries.  "  Now,"  said  the  poet,  who  was 
then  very  ill,  '•  it  is  fit  to  be  presented  to  a  lady."] 

Talk  not  to  me  of  savages 

From  Afric's  burning  sun, 
No  savage  e'er  could  rend  my  heart 

As,  Jessy,  thou  hast  done. 
But  Jessy's  lovely  hand  in  mine, 

A  mutual  faith  to  plight. 
Not  even  to  view  the  heavenly  choir 

Would  be  80  blest  a  sight. 


LXIX. 
THE  TOAST. 

[One  day,  when  Burns  was  ill  and  seemed  in  slumber, 
he  observed  Jessy  Lewars  moving  about  the  house  with 
a  light  step  lest  she  should  disturb  him.  He  took  a 
crystal  goblet  containing  wine-and-water  for  moistening 
his  lips,  wrote  tliese  words  upon  it  writh  a  diamond,  and 
presented  it  to  her. 

Fill  me  with  the  rosy  wine. 
Call  a  toast — a  toast  divine  ; 
Give  the  Poet's  darling  flame, 
Lovely  Jessy  be  the  name ; 
Then  thou  mayest  freely  boast, 
Thou  hast  given  a  peerless  toast. 


LXX. 

ON  MISS  JESSY  LEWARS. 

[The  constancy  of  her  attendance  on  the  poet's  sick- 
bed and  anxiety  of  mind  wrought  a  slight  illness  upon 
Jessy  Lewars.    "You  must  not  die  yet,"  said  the  poet; 


"give  me  that  goblet,  and  I  shall  prepare  yon  for  th« 
worst."  He  traced  these  lines  with  his  diamond,  aa4 
said,  "  That  will  be  a  companion  to  *  The  Toast.* " 

Sat,  sages,  what's  the  charm  on  earth 
Can  turn  Death's  dart  aside  ? 

It  is  not  purity  and  worth. 
Else  Jess)!  had  not  died. 

R.  B. 


LXXI. 

on  THK 

RECOVERY  OF  JESSY  LEWARS. 

[A  little  repose  brought  health  to  the  young  lady. 
"  I  knew  you  would  not  die,"  observed  the  poet,  with  a 
smile  :  "there  is  a  poetic  reason  for  your  recovery  :"  he 
wrote,  and  with  a  feeble  hand,  the  following  lines.] 

But  rarely  seen  since  Nature's  birth, 

The  natives  of  the  sky  ; 
Yet  still  one  seraph's  left  on  earth. 

For  Jessy  did  not  die. 

R.  B. 


Lxxir. 

TAM,   THE  CHAPMAN. 

[Tarn,  the  chapman,  is  said  by  the  late  William  Cob- 
bett,  who  knew  him,  to  have  been  a  Thomas  Kennedy,  a 
native  of  Ayrshire,  agent  to  a  mercantile  house  in  the 
west  of  Scotland.  Sir  Harris  Nicolas  confounds  him 
with  the  Kennedy  to  whom  Burns  addressed  several  let- 
ters and  verses,  which  I  printed  in  my  edition  of  the  poet 
in  1834  :  it  is  perhaps  enough  to  say  that  the  name  of  the 
one  was  Thomas  and  the  name  of  the  other  John.] 

As  Tarn  the  Chapman  on  a  day, 

Wi'  Death  forgather'd  by  the  way, 

Weel  pleas'd  he  greets  a  wight  so  famous. 

And  Death  was  nae  less  pleas'd  wi'  Thomas, 

Wha  cheerfully  lays  down  the  pack, 

And  there  blaws  up  a  hearty  crack ; 

His  social,  friendly,  honest  heart, 

Sae  tickled  Death  they  could  na  part : 

Sae  after  viewing  knives  and  garters. 

Death  takes  him  hame  to  gie  him  quarters. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                       205 

T.XXTII. 

It's  no  I  like  to  sit  an'  swallow. 

Then  like  a  swine  to  puke  and  wallow, 

[These  lines  seam  to  owe  their  origin  to  the  precept  of 
aiickle. 

"  The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

But  gie  me  just  a  true  good  fallow, 
Wi'  right  ingine, 

The  next  we  never  saw."] 

And  spunkie  ance  to  make  us  mellow, 

And  then  we'll  shine. 

Heeb's  a  bottle  and  an  honest  friend ! 

What  wad  you  wish  for  mair,  man? 

Now  if  ye're  ane  o'  warl's  folk, 

Wha  kens  before  his  life  ma.^  end, 

Wha  rate  the  wearer  by  the  cloak. 

What  his  share  may  be  o'  care,  man  T 

An'  sklent  on  poverty  their  joke 

Then  catch  the  moments  as  they  fly, 

Wi'  bitter  sneer. 

And  use  them  as  ye  ought,  man ! 

Wi'  you  nae  friendship  I  will  troke. 

Believe  me,  happiness  is  shy. 

Nor  cheap  nor  dear. 

And  comes  not  ay  when  sought,  man. 

But  if,  as  I'm  informed  weel, 
Ye  hate  as  ill's  the  very  deil 

The  flinty  heart  that  canna  feel — 

Lxxrv. 

Come,  Sir,  here's  tae  you  I 

[The  sentiment  which  these  lines  express,  was  one 

Hae,  there's  my  haun,  I  wiss  you  weel, 

familiar  to  Burns,  in  the  early,  as  well  as  concluding 

And  gude  be  wi'  you. 

days  of  his  life.] 

Egbert  Bubnesa 

Though  fickle  Fortune  has  deceived  me,    • 

Mossgiel,  3  March,  1786. 

She  promis'd  fair  and  perform'd  but  ill ; 

Of  mistress,  friends,  and  wealth  bereav'd  me, 
Yet  I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still.— 

ril  act  with  prudence  as  fat's  I'm  able, 

LXXVI. 

But  if  success  I  must  never  find. 

TO  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

Then  come  misfortune,  I  bid  thee  welcome, 

I'll  meet  thee  with  an  undaunted  mind. 

Fabewell,  dear  friend !  may  guid  luck  hit  yon, 

And  'mang  her  favourites  admit  you ! 
If  e'er  Detraction  shore  to  smit  you. 

May  nane  believe  him ! 

LXXV. 

And  ony  deil  that  thinks  to  get  you. 

TO  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

Good  Lord  deceive  him ! 
R.  B. 

[The  John  Kennedy  to  whom  these  verses  and  the  suc- 

Eamamock, August,  1786 

ceeding  lines  were  addressed,  lived,  in  1796,  at  Dumfries- 

house,  and  his  taste  was  so  much  esteemed  by  the  poet, 

that  he  submitted  his  »  Cotter's  Saturday  N^ht"  and  the 

"Mountain  Daisy"  to  his  judgment:  he  seems  to  have 

been  of  a  social  disposition.] 

Now,  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse 

Lxxvn. 

E'er  bring  you  in  by  Mauchline  Cross, 

L — d,  man,  there's  lasses  there  wad  force 

[Cromek  fonnd  these  characteristic  lines  aim  tt%  tb( 
poet's  papers.] 

A  hermit's  fancy, 

And  down  the  gate  in  faith  they're  worse 

Thebe's  naethin  like  the  honest  nappy  I 

And  mair  unchancy. 

Whaur'll  ye  e'er  see  men  sae  happy. 

Or  women,  sonsie,  saft  an'  sappy. 

But  as  I'm  sayin',  please  step  to  Dow*8, 

'Tween  morn  an'  morn 

And  taste  sic  gear  as  Johnnie  brews. 

As  them  wha  like  to  taste  the  drappie 

Till  some  bit  callan  bring  me  news 

In  glass  or  horn  ? 

That  ye  are  there, 

And  if  we  dinna  hae  a  bouze 

I've  seen  me  daezt  upon  a  time ; 

I'se  ne'er  drink  mair. 

I  scarce  could  wink  or  see  a  styme ; 

206                                   THE   POETICAL  WORKS 

Just  ae  hauf  muchkin  does  me  prime, 

Ought  less  is  little, 

LXXX. 

Ihen  back'  J  rattle  on  the  rhyme, 

IMPROMPTU. 

As  gleg's  a  whittle. 

» 

[The  tumbler  on  which  these  verses  are  inscribed  by 

the  diamond  of  Burns,  found  its  way  to  the  hands  of  Sil 

Walter  Scott,  and  is  now  among  the  treasures  of  Abbots- 
ford.] 

You're  welcome,  Willie  Stewart, 

Lxxviir. 

You're  welcome,  Willie  Stewart ; 

There's  ne'er  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May, 

ON   THE   BLANK  LEAF 
OF  A 

That's  half  sae  welcome's  thou  art. 

WORK  BY  HANNAH  MORE. 

Come  bumpers  high,  express  your  joy, 

PRESENTED   BY  MBS.    C . 

The  bowl  we  maun  renew  it ; 

The  tappit-hen,  gae  bring  her  ben, 

ThGu  flattering  work  of  friendship  kind, 

To  welcome  Willie  Stewart. 

Still  may  thy  pages  call  to  mind 

The  dear,  the  beauteous  donor  ; 

Though  sweetly  female  every  part. 

My  foes  be  Strang,  and  friends  be  slack. 

Y"et  such  a  head,  and  more  the  heart, 

Ilk  action  may  he  rue  it. 

Does  both  the  sexes  honour. 

May  woman  on  him  turn  her  back. 

She  showed  her  taste  refined  and  just, 

That  wrongs  thee,  Willie  Stewart. 

When  she  selected  thee. 

Yet  deviating,  own  I  must. 
For  so  approving  me ! 

But  kind  still,  I'll  mind  still 

The  giver  in  the  gift ; 

LXXXI. 

I'll  bless  her,  and  wiss  her 

A  Friend  above  the  Lift. 

PRAYER  FOR  ADAM  ARMOUR. 

Mossgiel,  April,  1786. 

[The  origin  of  this  prayer   is  curious.    In  1785,  the 

maid-servant  of  an  innkeeper  at  Mauchline,  having  been 

caught  in  what  old  ballad-makers  delicately  call  "  the 

deed  of  shame,"  Adam  Armour,  the  brother  of  the  poet's 
bonnie  Jean,  with  one  or  two  more  of  his  comrades,  exe- 

cuted a  rustic  act  of  justice  upon  her,  by  parading  her 

LXXIX. 

perforce  through  the  village,  placed    on  a  rough,  un- 

pruned  piece  of  wood  :  an  unpleasant  ceremony,  vulgarly 

called  "  Riding    the  Stang."      This  was  resented    by 

TO   THE   MEN  AND   BRETHREN 

Geordie  and  Nanse,  the  girl's  master  and  mistress  :  law 

OF  THB 

was  resorted  to,  and  as  Adam  had  to  hide  till  the  matter 

was  settled,  he  durst  not  venture  home  till  late  on  the 

MASONIC  LODGE  AT  TARBOLTON. 

Saturday  nights.    In  one  of  these  home-comings  he  met 

Burns,  who  laughed  when  he  heard  the  stor)--,  and  said, 

Within  your  dear  mansion  may  wayward  con- 

"You have  need  of  some  one  to  pray  for  you."    "N^ 

tention. 

one  can  do  that  better  than  yourself,"  was  the  reply,  and 

Or  withering  envy  ne'er  enter : 
May  pecrecy  round  be  the  mystical  bound, 

this  humorous  intercession  was  made  on  the  instant,  andy 
as  it  is  said,  "  clean  off  loof."    From  Adam  Armour  I 
obtained  the  verses,  and  when  he  wrote  them  out,  he 

And  brotherly  love  be  the  centre. 

told  the  story  in  which  the  prayer  originated.] 

Edmhurgh,  23  August,  1787. 

Lord,  pity  me,  for  I  am  little. 

An  elf  of  mischief  and  of  mettle. 

That  can  like  ony  wabster's  shuttle. 

Jink  there  or  here, 

Though  scarce  as  lang's  a  gude  kaie-df/iittle, 

I'm  unco  queer. 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS                                         207   1 

Lord  pity  now  our  vraefu'  case, 

1 
When  Death  comes  in  wi'  glimmering  blink. 

For  Geordie's  Jurr  we're  in  disgrace, 

And  tips  auld  drunken  Nanse  the  wink' 

Because  we  stang'd  her  through  the  place. 

Gaur  Satan  gie  her  a — e  a  clink 

'Mang  hundreds  laughin', 

Behint  his  yett. 

For  which  we  daurna  show  our  face 

And  fill  her  up  wi'  brimstone  drink. 

Within  the  clachan. 

Red  reeking  het  I 

And  now  we're  dern'd  in  glens  and  hallows, 

There's  Jockie  and  the  hav'rel  Jenny, 

And  hunted  as  was  William  Wallace, 

Some  devil  seize  them  in  a  hurry. 

By  constables,  those  blackguard  fellows. 

And  waft  them  in  th'  infernal  wherry. 

And  bailies  baith, 

Straught  through  the  lake, 

0  Lord,  preserve  us  frae  the  gallows ! 

And  gie  their  hides  a  noble  curry. 

That  cursed  death. 

Wi'  oil  of  aik. 

Auld,  grim,  black-bearded  Geordie's  sel', 

As  for  the  lass,  lascivious  body, 

0  shake  him  ewre  the  mouth  o'  hell, 

She's  had  mischief  enough  already, 

And  let  him  hing  and  roar  and  yell, 

Weel  stang'd  by  market,  mill,  and  smiddie. 

Wi'  hideous  din, 

She's  suffer'd  sair ; 

And  if  he  oflFers  to  rebel 

But  may  she  wintle  in  a  widdie. 

Just  heave  him  in. 

If  she  wh-re  mair. 

SONGS  ANI 

)  BALLADS. 

I. 

But  without  some  better  qualities 

She's  no  a  lass  for  me. 

HANDSOME    NELL. 

Tune. — "  I  am  a  man  unmarried.*^ 

IV. 

l»<  This  composition,"  says  Burns  in  his  "  Common- 

But  Nelly's  looks  are  blithe  and  sweet, 

p.ace  Book,"  "was  the  first  of  my  performances,  and 

And  what  is  best  of  a', 

done  at  an  early  period  in  life,  when  my  heart  glowed 

Her  reputation  is  complete, 

with  honest,  warm  simplicity ;  unacquainted  and  uncor- 

And  fair  without  a  flaw. 

ruptcd  with  the  ways  of  a  wicked  world.    The  subject 

of  it  was  a  young  girl  who  really  deserved  all  the  praises 

■yr 

[  have  bestowed  on  her."] 

She  dresses  ay  sae  clean  and  neat, 

I. 

Both  decent  and  genteel  ; 

0  ONCE  I  lov'd  a  bonnie  lass, 

And  then  there's  something  in  her  gait 

Ay,  an  J  I  love  her  still ; 

Gars  ony  dress  look  weel. 

And  whilst  that  honour  warms  my  breast, 

I'll  love  my  handsome  Nell. 

VI. 

A  gaudy  dress  and  gentle  tir 

II. 

May  slightly  touch  the  heart ; 

As  bonnie  lasses  I  hae  seen. 

But  it's  innocence  and  modesty 

And  mony  full  as  braw  ; 

That  polishes  the  dart 

But  for  a  modest  gracefu'  mien 

The  like  I  never  saw. 

VII. 

'Tis  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 

III. 

'Tis  this  enchants  my  soul ; 

A  bonnie  lass,  I  will  confess, 

For  absolutely  in  my  breast 

Is  pleasant  to  the  e'e, 

She  reigns  without  control 

208 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


n. 


LUCKLESS    FORTUNE. 

[These  lines,  as  Burns  informs  us,  were  written  to  a 
tune  of  his  own  composing,  consisting  of  three  parts, 
and  the  words  were  the  echo  of  tlie  air.] 

0  RAOiNO  fortune's  withering  blast 

Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  0 ! 
0  raging  fortune's  withering  blast 

Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  0  ! 
My  stem  was  fair,  my  bud  was  green, 

My  blossom  sweet  did  blow,  0 ; 
The  dew  fell  fresh,  the  sun  rose  mild, 

And  made  my  branches  grow,  0. 
But  luckless  fortune's  northern  storms 

Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  0 ; 
But  luckless  fortune's  northern  storms 

Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  0. 


m. 

I   DREAM'D  I  LAY. 

[These  melancholy  verses  were  written  when  the  poet 
was  some  seventeen  years  old :  his  early  days  were  typi- 
cal of  his  latter.] 

I. 

I  dream'd  I  lay  where  flowers  were  springing 

Gaily  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 
List'ning  to  the  wild  birds  singing, 

By  a  falling  crystal  stream : 
Straight  the  sky  grew  black  and  daring ; 

Thro'  the  woods  the  whirlwinds  rave  ; 
Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring, 

O'er  the  swelling  drumlie  wave. 


Such  was  my  life's  deceitful  morning. 

Such  the  pleasure  I  enjoy'd : 
But  lang  or  noon,  loud  tempests  storming, 

A'  my  flowery  bliss  destroy'd. 
Tho'  fickle  fortune  has  deceiv'd  me, 

She  promis'd  fair,  and  perform'd  but  ill ; 
Of  mony  a  joy  and  hope  bereav'd  me, 

I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 


IV. 

TIBBIE,   I  HAE   SEEN  THE   DAY. 

Tune — "Invercald^s  Reel." 

[The  Tibbie  who  "  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure," 
was,  it  is  said,  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  was  laird  ot 
three  acres  of  peatmoss,  and  thought  it  became  h«r  tm 
put  on  airs  in  consequence.] 

CHORUS. 

0  Tibbie,  I  hae  seen  the  day. 

Ye  wad  na  been  sae  shy; 
For  lack  o'  gear  ye  lightly  me, 

But,  trowth,  I  care  na  by. 


Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the  moor, 
Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure ; 
Ye  geek  at  me  because  I'm  poor, 
But  fient  a  hair  care  I. 


I  doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think, 
Because  ye  hae  the  name  o'  clink, 
That  ye  can  please  me  at  a  wink, 
Whene'er  ye  like  to  try. 

III. 
But  sorrow  tak  him  that's  sae  mean, 
Altho'  his  pouch  o'  coin  were  clean, 
Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean. 
That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

IV. 

Altho'  a  lad  were  e'er  sae  smart. 
If  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt, 
Ye'll  cast  your  head  anither  airt, 
And  answer  him  fu'  dry. 


But  if  he  hae  the  name  o'  gear, 
Ye'll  fasten  to  him  like  a  brier, 
Tho'  hardly  he,  for  sense  or  lear, 
Be  better  than  the  kye. 


But,  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice, 
Your  daddie's  gear  maks  you  sae  nice ; 
The  deil  a  ane  wad  spier  your  price. 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 


There  lives  a  lass  in  yonder  park, 
I  would  nae  gie  her  in  her  sark. 
For  thee,  wi'  a'  thy  thousan'  mark ; 
Ye  need  na  look  sae  high. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS.                                      209 

V. 

To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow. 

My  father  bred  me  early,  0 ; 

MY  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER. 

For  one,  he  said,  to  labour  bred. 

Tune—"  The  Weaver  and  his  Shuttle,  0." 

Was  a  match  for  fortune  fairly,  0. 

["  The  following  song,"  says  the  poet,  "  is  a  wild 

rhapsody,  miserably  deficient  in  versification,  but  as  the 

VI. 

■entiments  are  the  genuine  feelings  of  my  heart,  for  that 

reaaon  I  have  a  particular  pleasure  in  connpg  it  over."] 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor. 

Thro'  life  I'm  doom'd  to  wander,  Oj 

I. 

Till  down  my  weary  bones  I  lay. 

My  father  was  a  farmer 

In  everlasting  slumber,  0. 

Upon  the  Carrick  border,  0, 

No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate'er 

And  carefully  he  bred  me, 

Might  breed  me  pain  or  sorrow,  0 : 

In  decency  and  order,  0 ; 

I  live  to-day  as  well's  I  may, 

He  bade  me  act  a  manly  part, 

Regardless  of  to-morrow,  0. 

Though  I  had  ne'er  a  farthing,  0 ; 

For  without  an  honest  manly  heart. 

No  man  was  worth  regarding,  0. 

VII. 

But  cheerful  still,  I  am  as  well. 

II. 

As  a  monarch  in  a  palace,  0, 

Then  out  into  the  world 

Tho'  Fortune's  frown  still  hunts  me  down^ 

My  course  I  did  determine,  0 ; 

With  all  her  wonted  malice,  0 : 

Tho'  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish, 

I  make  indeed  my  daily  bread. 

Yet  to  be  great  was  charming,  0 : 

But  ne'er  can  make  it  farther,  0  ; 

My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst, 

But,  as  daily  bread  is  all  I  need. 

Nor  yet  my  education,  0  ; 

I  do  not  much  regard  her,  O 

Resolv'd  was  I,  at  least  to  try. 

To  mend  my  situation,  0. 

VIII. 

III. 

When  sometimes  by  my  labour 

Tn  many  a  way,  and  vain  essay. 

I  earn  a  little  money,  0, 

I  courted  fortune's  favour,  0 ; 

Some  unforeseen  misfortune 

Some  cause  unseen  still  stept  between. 

Comes  gen'rally  upon  me,  0  : 

To  frustrate  each  endeavour,  0 : 

Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect. 

Sometimes  by  foes  I  was  o'erpower'd, 

Or  my  goodnatur'd  folly,  0 ; 

Sometimes  by  friends  forsaken,  0, 

But  come  what  will,  Tve  sworn  it  still. 

And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top, 

I'll  ne'er  be  melancholy,  0. 

I  still  was  worst  mistaken,  0. 

IV. 

Then  sore  harass'd;  and  tir'd  at  last, 

IX. 

All  you  who  follow  wealth  and  power, 

"With  fortune's  vain  delusion,  0, 

With  unremitting  ardour,  0, 

I  dropt  my  schemes,  like  idle  dreams, 

The  more  in  this  you  look  for  bliss, 

And  came  to  this  conclusion,  0 : 

You  leave  your  view  the  farther,  Oj 

The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid; 

Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts. 

Its  good  or  ill  untried,  0 ; 

Or  nations  to  adore  you,  0, 

But  the  present  hour,  was  in  my  pow'r 

A  cheerful  honest-hearted  clown 

And  so  I  would  enjoy  it,  0. 

I  will  prefer  before  you,  0 

T. 

No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I, 
Nor  person  to  befriend  me,  0 ; 

So  I  must  toil,  and  sweat  and  broil, 

And  labour  to  sustain  me,  0 : 
14 

210 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


VI. 

IX. 

JOHN  BAKLEYCORN: 

They  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim  ; 

A   BALLAD. 

They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

[Composed  on  the  plan  of  an  old  song,  of  ■vhich  David 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

Laing  has  given  an  authentic  version  in  hi  j  very  curioua 

Ttlurae  of  Metrical  Tales.] 

X. 

L 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor, 

There  were  three  kings  into  the  east, 

To  work  him  farther  woe ; 

Three  kings  both  great  and  high ; 

And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appear' d, 

And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

They  toss'd  him  to  and  fro. 

John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

XI. 

II. 

They  wasted  o'er  a  scorching  flame 

They  took  a  plough  and  plough'd  him  down, 

The  marrow  of  his  bones ; 

Put  clods  upon  his  head  ; 

But  a  miller  us'd  him  worst  of  all — 

And  they  ha'e  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

He  crush'd  him  'tween  two  stones. 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

XII. 

III. 

And  they  ha'e  ta'en  his  very  heart's  blood, 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on, 

And  drank  it  round  and  round ; 

And  show'rs  began  to  fall ; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank, 

John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

And  sore  surpris'd  them  all. 

XIII. 

IV 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise; 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 

For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood. 

And  he  grew  thick  and  strong ; 

'Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 

His  head  weel  arm'd  wi'  pointed  spears 

That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

XIV. 

'Twill  make  a  man  forget  his  woe ; 

V. 

'Twill  heighten  all  his  joy: 

The  sober  autumn  enter'd  mild, 

'Twill  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing, 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale ; 

Tho'  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 

His  beading  joints  and  drooping  head 

fihow'd  he  began  to  fail. 

XV. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 

VI. 

Each  man  a  glass  in  hand ; 

His  colour  sicien'd  more  and  more, 

And  may  his  great  posterity 

He  faded  into  age ; 

Ne'er  fail  in  old  Scotland ! 

And  then  his  enemies  began 

• 

To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

VII. 

They've  ta  en  a  weapon,  long  and  sharp. 

VII. 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee ; 

THE  RIGS   0'   BARLEY. 

Then  ty'd  him  fast  upon  a  cart, 

Tune — **  Com  rigs  are  bonnie." 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgerie. 

[Two  young  women  of  the  west,  Anne  Ronald  and 

VIII. 

Anne  Blair,  have  each,  by  tho  district  traditions,  been 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back. 

claimed  as  tho  heroine  of  this  early  song.] 

And  cudgell'd  him  full  sore  ; 

I. 

They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 

It  was  upon  a  Lammas  night. 

And  turn'd  him  o'er  and  D'er, 

When  corn  rigs  are  bonnie^ 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


211 


Beneath  the  moon's  unclouded  light, 

I  held  awa  to  Annie : 
The  time  flew  by  wi'  tentless  heed, 

'Till  'tween  the  late  and  early, 
Wi'  sma'  persuasion  she  agreed, 

To  see  me  through  the  barley. 

II. 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still, 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly ; 
I  set  her  down  wi'  right  good  will, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley: 
I  ken't  her  heart  was  a'  my  ain ; 

I  lov'd  her  most  sincerely ; 
I  kiss'd  her  owre  and  owre  again, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 


I  lock'd  her  in  my  fond  embrace ! 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarely: 
My  blessings  on  that  happy  place, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley ! 
But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright, 

That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly  ? 
She  ay  shall  bless  that  happy  night, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley ! 


I  hae  been  blithe  wi'  comrades  dear ; 

I  hae  been  merry  drinkin' ; 
I  hae  been  joyfu'  gath'rin'  gear; 

I  hae  been  happy  thinkin' : 
But  a'  the  pleasures  e'er  I  saw, 

Tho'  three  times  doubled  fairly, 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a', 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 


Corn  rigs,  an'  barley  rigs. 
An'  corn  rigs  are  bonnie : 

I'll  ne'er  forget  that  happy  night, 
Amang  the  rigs  wi'  Annie. 


^  VIII. 

MO^TGOMERY'S  PEGGY. 

Tune— ««  Galla- Water." 

['« My  Montgomerj-'s  Peggy,"  says  Burns,  "was  m/ 
deity  for  six  or  eight  months :  slie  had  been  bred  in  a 
style  of  life  rather  elegant :  it  cost  me  some  heart-achea 
ro  get  rid  of  the  affair."    The  young  lady  listened  to  the 


eloquence  of  the  poet,  poured  out  in  many  an  interview 
and  then  quietly  told  him  that  she  stood  unalterablj 
engaged  to  another.] 


Altho'  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir, 
Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie. 

Yet  happy,  happy  would  I  be, 

Had  I  my  dear  Montgomery's  Peggy. 


When  o'er  the  hill  beat  surly  storms. 
And  winter  nights  were  dark  and  rainy  ; 

I'd  seek  some  dell,  and  in  my  arms 
I'd  shelter  dear  Montgomery's  Peggy. 


Were  I  a  baron  proud  and  high, 

And  horse  and  servants  waiting  ready, 

Then  a'  'twad  gie  o'  joy  to  me. 

The  sharin't  with  Montgomery's  Peggy. 


IX. 

THE   MAUCHLINE   LADY. 

Tune — ^^  I  had  a  horse,  I  had  nae  mair." 

[The  Mauchline  lady  who  won  the  poet's  heart  was 
Jean  Armour :  she  loved  to  relate  how  the  bard  made  her 
acquaintance:  his  dog  ran  across  some  linen  webs  which 
she  was  bleaching  among  Mauchline  gowans,  and  he 
apologized  so  handsomely  that  she  took  another  look  at 
him.  To  this  interview  the  world  owes  some  of  ou» 
most  impassioned  strains .] 

When  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 

My  mind  it  was  nae  steady  ; 
Where'er  I  gaed,  where'er  I  rade, 

A  mistress  still  I  had  ay : 
But  when  I  came  roun'  by  Mauchline  town, 

Not  dreadin'  any  body, 
My  heart  was  caught  before  I  thought. 

And  by  a  Mauchline  lady. 


THE  HiQHlAN©  LASSIE. 

Tune — **  The  deuks  dang  o'er  my  daddy  /" 

["  The  Highland  Lassie"  was  Mary  Campbell,  whos« 
too  early  death  the  poet  sung  m  strains  that  will  endurf 


212                                   THE    POETICAL   WORKS 

while  the  language  lasts.    «'  She  was,"  says  Burns,  "  a 

XI 

warm-hearted,  charming  young  creature  us  ever  t  Jessed 

I  man  with  generous  love."] 

PEGGY. 

I. 

[Tlie  heroine  of  this  song  is  said  to  have  been  "Mon» 

Nab  gentle  dames,  tho'  e'er  sae  fair, 

gomery's  Peggy."] 

Shall  ever  be  my  muse's  care : 

Tune — "  /  had  a  horse,  I  had  nae  mair." 

Their  titles  a'  are  empty  show  ; 

Gie  me  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

I. 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  0, 

Now  westlin  winds  and  slaughtering  guns 

Aboon  the  plains  sae  rushy,  0, 

Bring  autumn's  pleasant  weather ; 

I  set  me  down  wi'  right  good-will, 

The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings. 

To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

Amang  the  blooming  heather  : 

Now  waving  grain,  wide  o'er  the  plain. 

II. 

Delights  the  weary  farmer; 

And  the  moon  shines  bright,  when  I  rove  at 

Oh,  -were  yon  hills  and  valleys  mine, 

night 

Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine, 

To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 

The  world  then  the  love  should  know 

I  be^r  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

II. 

The  pai  tridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells ; 

III. 

The  plover  loves  the  mountains ; 

But  fickle  fortune  frowns  on  me. 

The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells; 

And  I  maun  cross  the  raging  sea ; 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains  ; 

But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow, 

Thro'  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves 

I'll  love  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

The  path  of  man  to  shun  it ; 

The  hazel  bush  o'erhangs  the  thrush, 

IV. 

The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet 

Altho'  thro'  foreign  climes  I  range. 

' 

I  know  her  heart  will  never  change. 

III. 

For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour's  glow, 

Thus  ev'ry  kind  their  pleasure  find. 

My  faithful  Highland  lassie,  0. 

The  savage  and  the  tender; 

Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine ; 

V. 

Some  solitary  wander: 

For  her  I'll  dare  the  billows'  roar, 

Avaunt,  away  !  the  cruel  sway. 

For  her  I'll  trace  a  distant  shore. 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion ; 

That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw 

The  sportsman's  joy,  the  murd'ring  cry, 

Around  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

The  flutt'ring,  gory  pinion. 

VI. 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand. 
By  sacred  truth  and  honour's  band  ! 
'Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 

IV. 

But  Peggy,  dear,  the  ev'ning's  clear, 
Thick  flies  the  skimming  swallow; 
The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view. 

I'm  thine,  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 
Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  0 ! 

All  fading-green  and  yellow : 
Come,  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way, 
And  view  the  charms  of  nature  ; 

Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  0 ! 
To  other  lands  I  now  must  go. 

The  rustling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn. 

To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

And  every  happy  creature.    . 

t 

V. 

We'll  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk, 
Till  the  silent  moon  shine  clearly ; 

ni  grasp  thy  waist,  and,  fondly  prest, 

Swear  how  I  love  thee  dearly : 

H©W    WIEST2LEH     WaHS 


» 


T 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                         2lh. 

Not  vernal  show'rs  to  budding  flow'rs, 

But  a  bonnie,  westlin  weaver  lad 

Not  autumn  to  the  farmer, 

Has  gart  me  change  my  sang. 

So  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me, 

To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go,  fair  maids, 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer  I 

To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go  ; 

I  rede  you  right  gang  ne'er  at  night, 

To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go . 

II. 
My  mither  sent  me  to  the  town, 

'          xn. 

THE  RANtIN'  DOa,   THE  DADDIE  O'T, 

To  warp  a  plaiden  wab  ; 

But  the  weary,  weary  warpin  o't 

Tnne—'*  Fast  nook  o'  Fife." 

Has  gart  me  sigh  and  sab. 

[Th«  heroine  of  this  humorous  ditty  was  the  mother 

of  "  Sonsio,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess,"  a  person  whom 

III. 

Ihe  poot  k<  inrded,  as  he  says,  both  for  her  form  and  her 

A  bonnie  westlin  weaver  lad, 

jrace.] 

Sat  working  at  his  loom  ;                      » 

I. 

He  took  my  heart  as  wi'  a  net. 

0  WHA  my  babie-clouts  will  buy  ? 

In  every  knot  and  thrum. 

0  wha  will  tent  me  when  I  cry  ? 

IV. 

I  sat  beside  my  warpin-wheel. 
And  ay  I  ca'd  it  roun' ; 

Wha  Will  kiss  me  where  I  lie  ? — 

The  rantin'  dog,  the  daddie  o't. 

II. 

But  every  shot  and  every  knock, 

0  wha  will  own  he  did  the  fau't  ? 

My  heart  it  gae  a  stoun. 

0  wha  will  buy  the  groanin'  maut  ? 

v. 

0  wha  will  tell  me  how  to  ca't  ? 

The  moon  was  sinking  in  the  west 

The  rantin'  dog,  the  daddie  o't. 

Wi'  visage  pale  and  wan. 

III. 

As  my  bonnie  westlin  weaver  lad 

Convoy'd  me  thro'  the  glen. 

When  I  mount  the  creepie  chair, 

Wha  will  sit  beside  me  there  ? 

VI. 

Gie  me  Rob,  I'll  seek  nae  mair. 

But  what  was  said,  or  what  was  done, 

The  rantin'  dog,  the  daddie  o't 

Shame  fa'  me  gin  I  tell ; 

But,  oh !  I  fear  the  kintra  soon 

IV. 

Will  ken  as  weel's  mysel. 

Wha  will  crack  to  roe  my  lane? 

To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go,  fair  maids. 

Wha  will  make  me  fidgin'  fain  ? 

To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go ; 

Wha  will  kiss  me  o'er  again  ? — 

I  rede  you  right  gang  ne'er  at  night. 

The  rantin'  dog,  the  daddie  o'L 

To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go. 

XIV. 

xni. 

NANNIE. 

MY   HEART  WAS   ANCE, 

Tune.— "  J/y  zV<Z7jnt«,  0." 

Tune — "  To  the  toeavera  gin  ye  go." 

[Agnes  Fleming,  servant  at  Calcothill,  inspired  this 

(«  7b i)  rhcniB  of  this  song,"  says  Burns,  in  his  note  to 

fine  sung :  she  died  at  an  advanced  age,  and  was  mora 

Hie  Mupeum,  "  is  old,  the  rest  is  mine."    The  "  bonnie. 

remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  her  form  than  face.    When 

weBtlin  weaver  lad"  is  said  to  have  been  one  of  the 

questioned  about  the  love  of  Burns,  she  smiled  and  aaid^ 

ivals  of  the  poet  in  the  aflections  of  a  west  landlady.] 

«« Aye,  atweel  he  made  a  great  wark  about  me."] 

I. 
Mt  heart  was  ance  as  blythe  and  free 

I. 
Behind  yon  hills,  where  Lugar  flows. 

Ab  simmer  days  wero  lang, 

'Mang  moors  an'  mosses  many,  0, 

214                                  THE  POETICAL  WORKS 

The  "wintry  sun  the  day  has  closed, 

I  sat  me  down  to  ponder, 

And  I'll  awa  to  Nannie,  0. 

Upon  an  auld  tree  root : 

Auld  Ayr  ran  by  before  me, 

II. 

And  bicker'd  to  the  seas ; 

The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  an'  shrill ; 

A  cushat  crooded  o'er  me. 

The  night's  baith  mirk  and  rainy,  0 ; 

That  echoed  thro'  the  braes. 

But  I'll  get  my  plaid,  an'  out  I'll  steal, 

An'  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  0. 

III. 

XVI. 

My  Nannie's  charming,  sweet,  an'  young ; 

Nae  artfu'  wiles  to  win  ye,  0 : 

BONNIE   PEGGY  ALISON. 

May  ill  befa'  the  flattering  tongue 

Tune — '^  Braes  o'  Balquihidder" 

That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  0. 

[On  those  whom  Burns  loved,  he  poured  out  soiigH 

without  limit.    Peggy  Alison  is  said,  by  a  western  tra 

•                                       IV. 

dition,  to  be  Montgomery's  Peggy,  but  this  seems  doubt 

Iler  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true, 

ful.l 

As  spotless  as  she's  bonnie,  0 : 

C  HO  BUS. 

The  op'ning  gowan,  wat  wi'  dew, 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  0. 

I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

An'  I'll  kiss  thee  o'er  again; 

V. 

An'  I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet. 

A  country  lad  is  my  degree, 

My  bonnie  Peggy  Alison  I 

An'  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  0 ; 

But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be  ? 

I. 

I'm  welcome  ay  to  Nannie,  0. 

Ilk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near, 

I  ever  mair  defy  them,  0  ; 

VI. 

Young  kings  upon  their  hansel  throne 

My  riches  a's  my  penny-fee, 

Are  no  sae  blest  as  I  am,  0 ! 

An'  I  maun  guide  it  cannie,  0 ; 

But  warl's  gear  ne'er  troubles  me, 

II. 

My  thoughts  are  a'  my  Nannie,  0. 

When  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  thy  charms, 

I  clasp  my  countless  treasure,  0, 

VII. 

I  seek  nae  mair  o'  Heaven  to  share 

Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  an'  kye  thrive  bonnie,  0 ; 

Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure,  0 ! 

But  I'm  as  blythe  thai  bauds  his  pleugh. 

III. 

An'  has  nae  care  but  Nannie,  0. 

And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue. 

VIII. 

I  swear,  I'm  thine  for  ever,  0  ! — 

Come  weel,  come  woe,  I  care  na  by, 

And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow. 

I'll  tak  what  Heav'n  will  sen'  me,  0 : 

And  break  it  shall  I  never,  0 ! 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet. 

But  live,  an'  love  my  Nannie,  0. 

An'  I'll  kiss  thee  o'er  again; 

An'  ril  kiss  thee  yet,  yet. 
My  bonnie  Peggy  Alison  ! 

XV. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Tune — *^John  Anderson  my  jo.'''* 

XVII. 

[This  verse,  written  early,  and  probably  intended  for 

THERE'S   NOUGHT  BUT  CARE. 

the  starting  verse  of  a  song,  was  found  among  the  papers 

Tune — "  Green  grow  the  rashes." 

of  the  poet.] 

["Man  wns  made  when  nature  was  but  an  apprentice; 

One  night  as  I  did  wander. 

but  woman  is  the  last  and  most  perfect  work  of  na- 

When corn  begins  to  shoot. 

ture,"  says  an  old  writer,  in  a  rare  old  book:  a  passage 

OF   EGBERT    BURNS.                                       215 

iV'liich  expiesses  the  sentiment  of  Burns;  yet  it  is  all  but 

Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart, 

rertain,  that  the  Ploughman  Bard  was  unacquainted  with 

Should  tenderly  entwine. 
Though  mountains  rise,  and  deserts  howl, 

'Cupid's  Wliirlygig,"  where  these  words  are   to   be 
found 

And  oceans  roar  between ; 

CHORUS. 

Yet,  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0 ! 

I  still  would  love  my  Jean 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0 ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  0. 

I. 

XIX. 

There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han', 

ROBIN. 

In  every  hour  that  passes,  0  : 

What  signifies  the  life  o'  man. 

Tune—"  Daintie  Davie:' 

An'  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  0. 

[Stothard  painted  a  clever  little   picture  from  thi; 

characteristic  ditty:   the  cannie  wife,  it  was  evident, 

II. 

saw  in  Robin's  palm  something  which  tickled  h»r,  and 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 

a  curious  intelligence  sparkled  in  the  eyes  of  her  gossips.] 

An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  0  ; 

I. 

An'  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast. 

There  was  a  lad  was  born  in  Kyle, 

Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  0. 

But  whatna  day  o'  whatna  style 

I  doubt  it's  hardly  worth  the  while 

III. 

To  be  sae  nice  wi'  Robin. 

But  gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en. 

Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy. 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  0  ; 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin' ; 

An'  warly  cares,  an'  warly  men, 

Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy. 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  0. 

Rantin'  rovin'  Robin! 

IV. 

For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this, 

II. 

Our  monarch's  hindmost  year  bat  ane 

Ye're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  0  : 

Was  five-and-twenty  days  begun. 

The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 

'Twas  then  a  blast  o'  Janwar  win' 

He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  0. 

Blew  hansel  in  on  Robin 

V. 

III. 

Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 

The  gossip  keekit  in  his  loof. 

Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  0 : 

Quo'  she,  wha  lives  will  see  the  proof, 

Her  'prentice  han'  she  try'd  on  man, 

This  waly  boy  will  be  nae  coof. 

An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  0. 

I  think  we'll  ca'  him  Robin 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0 1 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0  ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 

IV. 

He'll  hae  misfortunes  great  and  sma', 
But  ay  a  heart  aboon  them  a' ; 
He'll  be  a  credit  to  us  a'. 

Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  0. 

We'll  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin. 

♦ 

V. 

But  sore  as  three  times  three  mak  nine, 

XVUl. 

MY  JEANI 

I  see  by  ilka  score  and  line. 

Tune—"  The  Northern  Lass:' 

This  chap  will  dearly  like  our  kin', 

So  leeze  me  on  thee,  Robin. 

[The  lady  on  whom  this  passionate  verse  was  written 

leas  Jean  Armour. 

VI. 

Though  cruel  fate  should  bid  U3  part. 

Guid  faith,  quo'  she,  I  doubt  you  gar. 

Far  as  the  pole  and  line, 

The  bonnie  lasses  lie  aspar, 

216                                   THE   POETICAL   WOliKS 

But  twenty  fauts  ye  may  hae  waur, 

That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a  part — 

So  blessin's  on  thee,  Robin  ! 

*Tis  rakish  art  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 

Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy, 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin' ; 

IV. 

Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy, 

The  frank  address,  the  soft  caress. 

Rantin'  rovin'  Robin ! 

Are  worse  than  poison'd  darts  of  steel ; 

The  frank  address  and  politesse 

Are  all  finesse  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 

XX. 

HER  FLOWING  LOCKS. 

Tune — (unknown.) 

XXII. 

[One  day — it  is  tradition  that  speaks— Burns  had  his 

YOUNG  PEGGY. 

foot  in  the  stirrup  to  return  from  Ayr  to  Mauchline,  when 

Tnne—'* Last  time  Team  o'er  the  muir.'* 

11  young  lady  of  great  beauty  rode  up  to  the  inn,  and  or- 

dered refreshiriei.ts  for  her  servants:  he  made  these  lines 
nt  me  moment,  to  keep,  he  said,  so  much  beauty  in  his 

[In  these  verses  Burns,  it  is  said,  bade  farewell  to  on« 

on  whom  he  had,  according  to  his  own  account,  wastefl 

memory.] 

eiglit  months  of  courtship.     We  hear  no  more  of  Mont 

Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven  s  wing, 

gomery's  Peggy.] 

Adown  her  neck  and  bosom  hing  ; 

I. 

How  sweet  unto  that  breast  to  cling. 

Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass, 

And  round  that  neck  entwine  her ! 

Her  blush  is  like  the  morning, 

Her  lips  are  roses  wat  wi'  dew, 

The  rosy  dawn,  the  springing  grass. 

0,  what  a  feast  her  bonnie  mou' ! 

With  early  gems  adorning : 

Her  cheeks  a  mair  celestial  hue, 

Her  eyes  outshone  the  radiant  beams 

A  crimson  still  diviner. 

That  gild  the  passing  shower, 

And  glitter  o'er  the  crystal  streams, 

And  cheer  each  fresh'ning  flower. 

XXI. 

II. 

0  LEAVE  NOVELS. 

Her  lips,  more  than  the  cherries  bright, 

Tune — ^^  Mauchline  belles." 

A  richer  dye  has  graced  them  ; 

They  charm  th'  admiring  gazer's  sight, 

[Who  these  Mauchline  belles  were  the  bard  in  other 

And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them : 

terse  informs  us  : — 

Her  smile  is,  as  the  evening  mild, 

"  Mies  Miller  is  fine,  Miss  Markland's  divine. 

When  feather'd  tribes  are  courting. 

Miss  Smith,  she  has  wit,  and  Miss  Betty  is  braw; 

There's  beauty  and  fortune  to  get  with  Miss  Morton, 

And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild, 

But  Armour's  the  jewel  for  me  o'  them  a'."] 

In  playful  bands  disporting. 

I. 

0  LEAVE  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles. 

III. 

Were  fortune  lovely  Peggy's  foe, 

Ye're  safer  at  your  spinning-wheel ; 

Such  sweetness  would  relent  her, 

Such  witching  books  are  baited  hooks 

As  blooming  spring  unbends  the  brow 

For  rakish  rooks,  like  Rob  Mossgiel. 

Of  surly,  savage  winter. 

Detraction's  eye  no  aim  can  gain, 

II. 

Her  winning  powers  to  lessen  ; 

Tour  fine  Tom  Jones  and  Grandisons, 

And  fretful  envy  grins  in  vain 

They  make  your  youthful  fancies  reel ; 

The  poison'd  tooth  to  fasten. 

They  heat  your  brains,  and  fire  your  veins, 

And  then  you're  prey  for  Rob  Mossgiel. 

IV. 

Ye  powers  of  honour,  love,  and  truth. 

III. 

From  every  ill  defend  her ; 

Beware  a  tongue  that's  smoothly  hung. 

Inspire  the  highly-favour'd  youth, 

A  heart  that  warmly  seems  to  feel ; 

The  destinies  intend  her : 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        liiY 

Still  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame 

And  faith  I  agree  with  th'  old  prig  to  a  hair  ; 

Responsive  in  each  bosom, 

For  a  big-bellied  bottle's  a  heav'n  of  care. 

And  bless  the  dear  parental  name 

With  many  a  filial  blossom. 

VII. 

ADDED  IN   A  MASON   LODQE. 

Then  fill  up  a  bumper  and  make  it  o'erflow. 

xxin. 

The  honours  masonic  prepare  fcr  to  throw; 

May  every  true  brother  of  the  compass  and 

THE   CURE   FOR  ALL  CARE. 

square 

Tune — '■'■  Prepare^  my  dear  brethren,  to  the  tavern 

Have  a  big-bellied  bottle  when  harass'd  with 

uesfly:^ 

care  I 

[Tarbolton  Lodge,  of  which  the  poet  was  a  membrr, 

' 

wna  noted  for  its  socialities.    Masonic  lyrics  are  all  oi   • 
dark  and  mystic  order  j  and  those  of  Burns  are  scarcel 

Rn  exception.] 

# 

I. 

XXIV. 

No  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to  write, 

No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to  fight, 

ELIZA. 

No  sly  man  of  business,  contriving  to  snare — 

Tune—"  Gilderoyr 

For  a  big-bellied  bottle's  the  whole  of  my  care. 

[My  late  excellent  friend,  John  Gait,  informed  ine  tnat 

the  Eliza  of  this  song  was  his  relative,  and  that  her  name 

II. 

was  Elizabeth  Barbour.] 

The  peer  I  don't  envy,  I  give  him  his  bow ; 

I  scorn  not  the  peasant,  tho'  ever  so  low ; 

I. 

But  a  club  of  good  fellows,  like  those  that  are 

From  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go. 

here. 

And  from  my  native  shore ; 

And  a  bottle  like  this,  are  my  glory  and  care. 

The  cruel  Fates'between  us  throw 

A  boundless  ocean's  roar : 

III. 

But  boundless  oceans  roaring  wide 

Here  passes  the  squire  on  his  brother — his  horse ; 

Between  my  love  and  me. 

There   centum  per  centum,  the  cit  with  his 

They  never,  never  can  divide 

purse ; 

My  heart  and  soul  from  thee ! 

But  see  you  The  Crown,  how  it  waves  in  the  air  I 

There  a  big-bellied  bottle  still  eases  my  care. 

II. 

IV. 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear, 

The  wife  of  my  bosom,  alas !  she  did  die ; 

The  maid  that  I  adore ! 

For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I  did  fly ; 

A  boding  voice  is  in  mine  ear. 

I  found  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fail, 

We  part  to  meet  no  more! 

That  a  big-bellied  bottle's  a  cure  for  all  care. 

The  latest  throb  that  leaves  my  heart, 

While  death  stands  victor  by, 

V. 

That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part, 

I  once  was  persuaded  a  venture  to  make  ; 

And  thine  that  latest  sigh  I 

A  letter  informed  me  that  all  was  to  wreck;— 

But  the  pursy  old  landlord  just  waddled  up 

stairs. 
With  a  glorious  bottle  that  ended  my  cares. 

VI. 

XXV. 

"Life's  cares  they  are  comforts,"'— a  maxim 
laid  down 

THE   SONS   OF   OLD  KILLIE. 

By  the  bard,  what  d'ye  call  him,  that  wore  the 

Tune — "  Shaumboy." 

black  gown ; 

["This  song,  wrote  by  Mr.  Burns,  was  sung  by  him 
in  the  Kilin.iniock-Kilwinning  Lodge,  in  179G,  and  given 

>  Young's  NiRht  Thoughts. 

by  hitn  to  Mr.  Parker,  who  was  Master  of  the  Tiorige." 

218                                   THE   POETICAL  WORKS 

These  interesting  words  are  on  the  original,  m  the  poet's 

III. 

handwriting,  in  liie  possession  of  Mr.  Gabriel  Neil,  of 
Glasgow.] 

The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 

Wi'  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks ; 

1. 

But  life  to  me's  a  weary  dream, 

Ye  sons  of  old  Killie,  assembled  by  Willie, 

A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

To  follow  the  noble  vocation ; 

Your  thrifty  old  mother  has  scarce  such  another 

IV. 

To  sit  in  that  honoured  station. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims. 

I've  little  to  say,  but  only  to  pray, 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

As  praying's  the  ton  of  your  fashion; 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 

A  prayer  from  the  muse  you  well  may  excuse. 

And  every  thing  is  blest  but  I. 

'Tis  seldom  her  favourite  passion. 

v. 

II. 

The  sheep-herd  steeks  his  faulding  slap. 

Y"e  powers  who  preside  o'er  the  wind  and  the 

And  owre  the  moorland  whistles  shrill ; 

tide. 

Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wand'ring  step. 

Who  marked  each  element's  border ; 

I  meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

Who  formed  this  frame  with  beneficent  aim, 

VI. 

Whose  sovereign  statute  is  order ; 

And  when  the  lark,  'tween  light  and  dark, 

Within  this  dear  mansion,  may  wayward  con- 
tention 
Or  withered  envy  ne'er  enter ; 

Blythe  waukens  by  the  daisy's  side. 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 
A  woe-worn  ghaist  I  hameward  glide. 

May  secrecy  round  be  the  mystical  bound. 

And  brotherly  love  be  the  centre. 

VII. 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl. 

And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree: 
Thy  gloom  will  sooth  my  cheerless  soul, 

When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me  ! 

And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  doat, 

XXVI. 

And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e'e  ? 

M  E  N  I  E. 

For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  an'  it's  like  a  hawk, 

An'  it  winna  let  a  body  be. 

Tune. — ^*  Johnny's  grey  breeks." 

[Of  the  lady  who  inspired  this  song  no  one  has  given 

any  account :  It  first  appeared  in  the  second  edition  of  the 

poet's  works,  and  as  the  chorus  was  written  by  an  Edin- 

burgh gentleman,  it  has  been  surmised  tiiat  the  song  was 

K  matter  of  friendship  rather  than  of  the  heart.] 

XXVII. 

I. 

THE    FAREWELL 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees 

TO  THK 

Iler  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues. 

BRETHREN   OF    ST.    JAMES'S  LODGE, 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze. 

TARBOLTON. 

All  freshly  steep'd  in  morning  dews. 

And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  doat. 

Tune — "  Good-night,  and  Joy  be  wi'  you  a." 

And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e'e  ? 

[Burns,  it  is  said,  sung  this  song  in  the  St.  James'i 

For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  an'  it's  like  a  hawk. 

Lodge  of  Tarbolton,  when  his  chest  was  on  the  way  to 

An'  it  winna  let  a  body  be. 

Greenock :  men  are  yet  living  who  had  the  honour  of 
hearing  him— the  concluding  verse  affected  the  whoI« 

lodge.] 

II. 

I. 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw, 

Adieu  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu  ! 

In  vain  to  me  the  vi'lets  spring ; 

Dear  brothers  of  the  mystic  tie! 

In  vain  to  me,  in  glen  or  shaw, 

Ye  favour'd,  ye  enlighten'd  few. 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

Companions  of  my  social  joy  ! 

OF  ROBERT   BURNS.                                       219 

Tho'  I  to  foreign  lands  must  hie, 

II. 

Pursuing  Fortune's  slidd'ry  ba', 

She's  sweeter  than  the  morning  dawn 

With  melting  heart,  and  brimful  eye, 

When  risxng  Phoebus  first  is  seen. 

I'll  mind  you  still,  tho'  far  awa'. 

And  dew-drops  twinkle  o'er  the  lawn  ; 

II. 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een 

Oft  have  I  met  your  social  band, 

III. 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night ; 

She's  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash. 

Oft,  honour 'd  with  supreme  command, 

That  grows  the  cowslip  braes  between, 

Presided  o'er  the  sons  of  light : 

And  drinks  the  stream  with  vigour  fresh ; 

And  by  that  hieroglyphic  bright, 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

Which  none  but  craftsmen  ever  saw  I 

Strong  mem'ry  on  my  heart  shall  write 

IV. 

Those  happy  scenes  when  far  awa'. 

She's  spotless  like  the  flow'ring  thorn. 

With  flow'rs  so  white  and  leaves  so  green, 

III. 

When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn ; 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een 

May  freedom,  harmony,  and  love 

Unite  you  in  the  grand  design, 

V. 

Beneath  th'  Omniscient  Eye  above, 
The  glorious  Architect  divine ! 

Her  looks  are  like  the  vernal  May, 

When  evening  Phoebus  shines  serene, 

That  you  may  keep  th'  unerring  line, 

irm    •!        1   •      1              •     • 

Still  rising  by  the  plummet's  law, 
Till  order  bright  completely  shine. 

While  birds  rejoice  on  every  spray — 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

Shall  be  my  pray'r  when  far  awa'. 

VI. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist 

IV. 

That  climbs  the  mountain-sides  at  e'en. 

And  you  farewell !  whose  merits  claim, 

When  flow'r-reviving  rains  are  past ; 

Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear  ! 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

Heav'n  bless  your  honour'd,  noble  name. 

To  masonry  and  Scotia  dear  ! 

VII. 

A  last  request  permit  me  here. 

Her  forehead's  like  the  show'ry  bow, 

When  yearly  ye  assemble  a'. 

When  gleaming  sunbeams  intervene, 

One  round — I  ask  it  with  a  tear, — 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain's  brow ; 

To  him,  the  Bard  that's  far  awa'. 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

VIII. 

Her  cheeks  are  like  yon  crimson  gem. 

The  pride  of  all  the  flow'ry  scene. 

Just  opening  on  its  thorny  stem ; 

XXVIII. 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

ON   CESSNOCK  BANKS. 

IX. 

Tune — '■^  Ifhe  he  a  butcher  neat  and  trim." 

Her  teeth  are  like  the  nightly  snow 

[There  are  many  variations  of  this  songr,  which  was 

When  pale  the  morning  rises  keen, 

Irsl  printed  liy  Croinek  from  ihe  oral  communication  of 

While  hid  the  murmuring  streamlets  flow 

A  GlnHgow  lady,  oa  whube  charms  the  poet,  in  early  life. 

An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  eon 

toniposed  it.] 

I. 

X. 

On  Cessnock  banks  a  lassie  dwells ; 

Her  lips  are  like  yon  cherries  ripe, 

Could  T  describe  her  shape  and  mien; 

That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen— 

Our  lasses  a'  she  far  excels. 

They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight; 

.\n'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

!          An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

220 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


XI. 

Her  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep; 

>Vith  fleeces  newly  washen  clean, 
That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep ; 

An'  she  has  twa  glancin'  roguish  een. 


Iler  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  gently  stii-s  the  blossom'd  bean, 

When  Phoebus  sinks  behind  the  seas ; 
An'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

XIII. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  ev'ning  thrush 
That  sings  on  Cessnock  banks  unseen. 

While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush ; 
Au'  she  has  twa  sparkling  roguish  een. 

XIV. 

But  it's  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 
Tho'  matching  beauty's  fabled  queen, 

'Tis  the  mind  that  shines  in  ev'ry  grace, 
Au'  chiefly  in  her  roguish  een. 


XXIX. 
MARY! 

Tune — "Blue  Bonnets. 


[[n  the  original  manuscript  Burns  calls  this  song  "A 
Prayer  for  Mary;"  his  Highland  Mary  is  supposed  to  be 
Liie  iuspirer.] 


PowEBS  celestial !  whose  protection 

Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair, 
While  in  distant  climes  I  wander, 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care : 
Let  her  form  sae  fair  and  faultless. 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own. 
Let  my  Mary's  kindred  spirit 

Draw  your  choicest  influence  down. 


Make  tho  gales  you  waft  around  her 

Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast ; 
Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her, 

Soothe  her  bosom  into  rest : 
Guardian  angels !     0  protect  her, 

When  in  distant  lands  I  roam  ; 
To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles  me, 

Make  her  bosom  still  my  home. 


XXX. 

THE  LASS  OF  BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune — **3fis9  Forbes^ a  Farewell  to  Banff." 

[Miss  Alexander,  of  Ballochmyle,  as  the  poet  tells  hei 
in  a  letter,  dated  November,  1786,  inspired  this  populM 
Bong.  He  chanced  to  meet  her  in  one  of  his  favourit« 
walks  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  and  the  fine  scene  and 
the  lovely  lady  set  the  muse  to  work.  Miss  Alexander 
perhaps  unaccustomed  to  this  forward  wooing  of  th« 
muse,  allowed  the  offering  to  remain  unnoticed  for  a 
time  :  it  is  now  in  a  costly  frame,  and  hung  in  her  cham- 
ber— as  it  deserves  to  be.] 


'TwAS  even — the  dewy  fields  were  green, 

On  every  blade  the  pearls  hang, 
The  zephyr  wanton'd  round  the  bean, 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang : 
In  ev'ry  glen  the  mavis  sang, 

All  nature  listening  seem'd  the  while, 
Except  where  greenwood  echoes  rang 

Amang  the  braes  o'  Ballochmyle ! 


With  careless  step  I  onward  stray'd. 

My  heart  rejoic'd  in  nature's  joy. 
When  musing  in  a  lonely  glade, 

A  maiden  fair  I  chanc'd  to  spy ; 
Her  look  was  like  the  morning's  eye, 

Her  air  like  nature's  vernal  smile, 
Perfection  whisper'd  passing  by, 

Behold  the  lass  o'  Ballochmyle ! 


Fair  is  the  morn  in  flow'ry  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  autumn  mild 
When  roving  thro'  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wand'ring  in  the  lonely  wild  ; 
But  woman,  nature's  darling  child  I 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile ; 
Even  there  her  other  works  are  foil'd 

By  the  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle, 


0,  had  she  been  a  country  maid, 

And  I  the  happy  country  swain, 
Tho'  shelter'd  in  the  lowest  shed 

That  ever  rose  on  Scotland's  plain, 
Thro'  weary  winter's  wind  and  rain, 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toil ; 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 

The  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 


OF   ROBEKT   BURNS. 


221 


Then  pride  might  climb  the  slippery  steep, 

Where  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine  : 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep 

Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine  ; 
Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks,  or  till  the  soil, 
And  ev'ry  day  have  joys  divine 

With  the  bonnie  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 


XXXI. 

THE   GLOOMY   NIGHT. 

Tune — '*  Eoslin  Castle." 

["  I  had  taken,"  says  Burns,  "  the  last  farewell  of  my 
friends,  my  chest  was  on  the  road  to  Greenock,  and  I  liad 
composed  the  last  song  I  should  ever  measure  in  Caledo- 
nia— 

*  The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast.'  "] 

I. 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast, 
Loud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast ; 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 
I  see  it  driving  o'er  the  plain ; 
The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 
The  scatter'd  coveys  meet  secure ; 
While  here  I  wander,  prest  with  care. 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

II. 

The  Autumn  mourns  her  rip'ning  com. 
By  early  Winter's  ravage  torn ; 
Across  her  placid,  azure  sky, 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly : 
Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave — 
I  think  upon  the  stormy  wave. 
Where  many  a  danger  I  must  dare. 
Far  from  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 


'Tis  not  the  surging  billow's  roar, 
'Tis  not  that  fatal  deadly  shore ; 
Tho'  death  in  ev'ry  shape  appear, 
The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear ! 
But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 
That  heart  transpierc'd  jrifh  many  a  wound  ; 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I  tear, 
To  leave  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 


Farewell  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales, 
Hei  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales  ; 


The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves. 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves ! 
Farewell,  my  friends !  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those- 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare ; 
Farewell,  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr  I 


XXXII. 

0  WHAR  DID  YE   GET 

Tune — '*  Bonnie  Dundee." 

[This  is  one  of  the  first  songs  which  Burns  commnnl 
cated  to  Johnson's  Musical  Museum  :  the  starting  vers* 
is  partly  old  and  partly  new  :  the  b»-  and  is  wholly  by  hit 
hand.] 

I. 

0,  WHAR  did  ye  get  that  hauver  meal  bannock  ? 

0  silly  blind  body,  0  dinna  ye  see  ? 
I  gat  it  frae  a  young  brisk  sodger  laddie. 

Between  Saint  Johnston  and  bonnie  Dundee. 
0  gin  I  saw  the  laddie  that  gae  me't! 

Aft  has  he  doudl'd  me  up  on  his  knee ; 
May  Heaven  protect  my  bonnie  Scots  laddie. 

And  send  him  safe  hame  to  his  babie  and 
me ! 

II. 

My  blessin's  upon  thy  sweet  wee  lipple. 

My  blessin's  upon  thy  bonnie  e'e  brie  ! 
Thy  smiles  are  sae  like  my  blythe  sodger  laddie, 

Thou's  ay  the  dearer  and  dearer  to  me  ! 
But  I'll  big  a  bower  on  yon  bonnie  banks, 

Where  Tay  rins  wimplin'  by  sae  clear ; 
And  I'll  deed  thee  in  the  tartan  sae  fine. 

And  mak  thee  a  man  like  thy  daddie  dear 


xxxm. 

THE   JOYFUL  WIDOWER 
Tune — "  Maggy  Lauder.^ 

[Most  of  this  song  is  by  Bums :  his  fancy  was  fi.  6e 
with  images  of  matrimonial  joy  or  infelicity,  and  he  ^ai 
them  ever  ready  at  the  call  of  the  muse.  It  wa*  iri< 
printed  iarthe  Musical  Museum  ] 

I. 

I  MARRIED  with  a  scolding  wife 
The  fourteenth  of  November  ; 

She  made  me  weary  of  my  life, 
By  one  unruly  member.  ' 


222                                  THE    POETICAL   WORKS 

Long  did  I  bear  the  heavy  yoke, 

XXXV. 

And  many  griefs  attended ; 

But  to  my  comfort  be  it  spoke, 

I  AM  MY  MAMMY'S  AE  BAIRN. 

Now,  now  her  life  is  ended. 

Ttine — "  Fm  o'er  young  to  marry  yet." 

II. 

[The  title,  and  part  of  the  chorus  only  of  this  song,  art 

We  liv'd  full  one-and-twenty  years    ^ 

old  ;  the  rest  is  by  Burns,  and  was  written  tor  Johnson.] 

A  man  and  wife  together ; 

I. 

At  length  from  me  her  course  she  s1;eer'd, 

I  AM  my  mammy's  ae  bairn, 

And  gone  I  know  not  whither : 

Wi'  unco  folk  I  weary.  Sir ; 

Would  I  could  guess,  I  do  profess, 

And  lying  in  a  man's  bed. 

I  speak,  and  do  not  flatter. 

I'm  fley'd  it  make  me  eerie.  Sir. 

Of  all  the  woman  in  the  world, 

I'm  o'er  young  to  marry  yet ; 

1  never  could  come  at  her. 

I'm  o'er  young  to  marry  yet ; 

III. 

I'm  o'er  young — 'twad  be  a  sin 

Her  body  is  bestowed  well, 

To  tak'  me  frae  my  mammy  yet 

A  handsome  grave  does  hide  her ; 

II. 

But  sure  her  soul  is  not  in  hell, 

The  deil  would  ne'er  abide  her. 

Hallowmas  is  come  and  gane. 

I  rather  think  she  is  aloft. 

The  nights  are  lang  in  winter.  Sir ; 

And  imitating  thunder ; 

"n                1                           1.1*1X1                 1                    • 

And  you  an'  I  in  ae  bed. 

In  trouth,  I  dare  na  venture.  Sir. 

For  why, — methmks  I  hear  her  voiC3 

Tearing  the  clouds  asunder. 

III. 

Fu'  loud  and  shrill  the  frosty  wind. 

Blaws  through  the  leafless  timmer.  Sir ; 
But,  if  ye  come  this  gate  again, 

' 

I'll  aulder  be  gin  simmer.  Sir. 

XXXIV. 

I'm  o'er  young  to  marry  yet; 

COME  DOWN  THE  BACK  STAIRS. 

I'm  o'er  young  to  marry  yet ; 

I'm  o'er  young,  'twad  be  a  sin 

Tune — '*  Whistle,  and  Til  come  to  you,  my  lad." 

To  tak  me  frae  my  mammy  yet. 

[The  air  of  this  song  was  composed  by  John  Brnce,  a 

Dumfries  fiddler.    Burns  gave  another  and  happier  ver- 

jion  to  the  work  of  Tiiomson  :  this  was  written  for  the 

Huseuui  of  Johnson,  where  it  was  first  published.] 

CHORUS. 

XXXVI. 

0  whistle,  and  I'll  come 

BONNIE   LASSIE,    WILL  YE   GO. 

To  you,  my  lad  ; 

0  whistle,  and  I'll  come 

Tune—"  The  hirks  of  Aherfeldy. " 

To  you,  my  lad : 

[An  old  strain,  called  "  The  Birks  of  Abergeldie,"  wai 

Tho'  father  and  mither 

the  forerunner  of  this  sweet  eong :  it  was  written,  the 

Should  baith  gae  mad, 
0  whistle,  and  I'll  come 

poet  says,  standing  under  the  Falls  of  Aberfeldy,  near 

Moness,  in  Perthshire,  during  one  of  the  tours  whicn  h« 
made  to  the  north,  in  the  year  1787.] 

To  you,  my  lad. 

CHORUS. 

Come  down  the  back  stairs 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go, 

When  ye  come  to  court  me ; 

Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go ; 

Come  down  the  back  stairs 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go 

When  ye  come  to  court  me ; 

To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy  ? 

Come  down  the  back  stairs. 

And  let  naebody  see, 

I. 

And  come  as  ye  were  na 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowery  braes, 

Coming  to  me. 

And  o'er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays ; 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS                                         223 

Come  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 

II. 

In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Oh,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ? 

On  many  a  bloody  plain                 • 

II. 

I've  dar'd  his  face,  and  in  this  place 

The  little  birdies  blithely  sing, 

I  scorn  him  yet  again ! 

While  o'er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 

Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 

III. 

In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands. 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword  ; 

III. 

And  there's  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland, 

The  braes  ascend,  like  lofty  wa's. 

But  I'll  brave  him  at  a  word. 

The  foamy  stream  deep-roaring  fa's, 

O'erhung  wi'  fragrant  spreading  shaws, 

IV. 

The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

I've  liv'd  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife  j 

I  die  by  treacherie  : 

IV. 

It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart. 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crown' d  wi'  flowers, 

And  not  avenged  be. 

White  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 

Y. 

And  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Now  farewell  light — thou  sunshine  bright, 
And  all  beneath  the  sky ! 

v. 

May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die ! 

Let  Fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly. 

They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he  ; 

Supremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee, 

He  play'd  a  spring,  and  danc'd  it  round, 

In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go. 

Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go  ; 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go 

To  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy? 

XXXVIII. 

BRAW  LADS   OF   GALLA  WATER 
Tune—"  Galla  Water. 

[Burns  found  this  song  in  the  collection  of  Herd  • 

XXXVII. 

added  the  first  verse,  made  other  but  not  material  emen- 

dations,  and  published  it  in  Johnson :  in  1793  he  ^v^ot€ 

MACPHERSON'S  FAREWELL. 

another  version  for  Thomson.] 

CHORUS. 

Tune —   M'Pherson's  Rant." 

Braw,  braw  lads  of  Galla  Water ; 

[This  vehement  and  daring  song  had  its  origin  in  an 

0  braw  lads  of  Galla  Water : 

older  and  inferior  strain,  recording  the  feelings  of  a  noted 
freebooter  when  brought  to  "  justify  his  deeds  on  the 

I'll  kilt  my  coats  aboon  my  knee. 

fallows-tree"  at  Inverness.] 

And  follow  my  love  thro'  the  water. 

I. 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

I. 

Sae  fair  her  hair,  sae  brent  her  brow. 

The  wretch's  destinie ! 

Sae  bonny  blue  her  een,  my  dearie  ; 

Uacpherson's  time  will  not  be  long 

Sae  white  her  teeth,  sae  sweet  her  mou', 

On  yonder  gallows-tree. 

The  mair  I  kiss  she's  ay  my  dearie. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he ; 

II. 

He  play'd  a  spring,  and  danc'd  it  round, 

O'er  yon  bank  and  o'er  yon  brae. 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 

O'er  yon  moss  amang  the  heather  ; 

224                                  THE   POETICAL  WORKS 

I'll  kilt  my  coats  aooon  my  knee, 

11. 

And  follow  my  love  thro'  the  water. 

Crystal  streamlets  gently  flowing, 

• 

Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 

III. 

Western  breezes  softly  blowing, 

Down  amang  the  broom,  the  broom, 

Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

Down  amang  the  broom,  my  dearie, 

The  lassie  lost  a  silken  snood. 

III. 

That  cost  her  mony  a  blirt  and  bleary. 

In  the  cause  of  Right  engaged, 

Braw,  braw  lads  of  Galla  Water ; 

Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 

0  braw  lads  of  Galla-Water  : 

Honour's  war  we  strongly  waged, 

I'll  kilt  my  coats  aboon  my  knee, 

But  the  heavens  denied  success. 

And  follow  my  love  thro'  the  water. 

IV. 

Ruin's  wheel  has  driven  o'er  us. 
Not  a  hope  that  dare  attend. 

The  wild  world  is  all  before  us— 

XXXIX. 

But  a  world  without  a  friend 

STAY,  MY  CHARMER. 

Tune ^' An  Gille  duhh  ciar  dhubh." 

[The  air  of  this  song  was  picked  up  by  the  poet  in  one 

of  his  northern  tours  :  his  Highland  excursions  coloured 

XLI. 

many  of  his  lyric  compositions.] 

I. 

MY    HOGG  IE. 

Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ? 

Tune — "What  will  I  do  gin  my  Hoggie  dief'' 

Cruel,  cruel,  to  deceive  me ! 

[Burns  was  struck  with  the  pastoral  wildness  of  this 

Well  you  know  how  much  you  grieve  me; 

Liddesdale  air,  and  wrote  these  words  to  it  for  the  Mu- 

Cruel charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

seum  :  the  first  line  only  Is  old.] 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

What  will  I  do  gin  my  Hoggie  die  ? 

1 1. 

My  joy,  my  pride,  my  Hoggie! 

My  only  beast,  I  had  nae  mae, 

By  my  love  so  ill  requited ; 

And  vow  but  I  was  vogie ! 

By  the  faith  you  fondly  plighted; 

The  lee-lang  night  we  watch'd  the  fauia, 

By  the  pangs  of  lovers  slighted  ; 

Me  and  my  faithfu'  doggie  ; 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so ! 

We  heard  nought  but  the  roaring  linn. 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so ! 

Amang  the  braes  sae  scroggie ; 

But  the  houlet  cry'd  frae  the  castle  wa'. 

The  blitter  frae  the  boggie, 

The  tod  reply'd  upon  the  hill, 

XL. 

I  trembled  for  my  Hoggie. 

THICKEST  NIGHT,  O'ERHANG  MY 

When  day  did  daw,  and  cocks  did  craw. 

DWELLING. 

The  morning  it  was  foggie  ; 

An'  unco  tyke  lap  o'er  the  dyke. 

TnnQ—''Strathallan's  Lament." 

And  maist  has  kill'd  my  Hoggie. 

[The  Viscount  Strathallan,  whom  this  song  comme- 

Tnnr'ifpa    AHfia  Wniimn    DrnrnTTinnH  *    hfl  "MTmq    Rlnin  at    t1l6 

tarnageof  Culloden.    It  was  long  believed  that  he  es- 

Japed  to  France  and  died  in  exile.] 

XLII. 

1. 
Thickest  night,  surround  my  dwelling ! 

HER   DADDIE   FORBAD. 

Howling  tempests,  o'er  me  rave  ! 

Tune — "  Jumpin^  John." 

Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling, 

[This  is  one  of  the  old  songs  which  Ritson  accusen 

Roaring  by  my  lonely  cave ! 

Burns  of  amending  for  the  Museum :  little  of  it,  how- 

OF  ROBERT   BURNS.                                        225 

aver,  is  his,  save  a  touch  here  and  there— but  they  are 

Burus-s  touches.] 

XLIV. 

I. 

THB 

Hbb  daddie  forbad,  her  minnie  forbad ; 

YOUNG  HIGHLAND  ROVER. 

Forbidden  she  wadna  be: 

ghe  wadna  trow't,  the  browst  she  brew'd 

Tune— "iforay." 

Wad  taste  sae  bitterlie. 

[The  Young  Highland  Rover  of  this  strain  is  suppcsrd 

The  lang  lad  they  ca'  jumpin'  John 

by  some  to  be  the  Chevalier,  and  with  more  probabiiity 

Beguiled  the  bonnie  lassie, 

by  others,  to  be  a  Gordon,  as  the  song  was  composed  ia 

The  laag  lad  they  ca'  Jumpin'  John 

consequence  of  the  poet's  visit  to  «'  bonnie  Castle-Gcr. 
don,"  in  September,  1787.] 

Beguiled  the  bonnie  lassie. 

j^ 

II. 

Loud  blaw  the  frosty  breezes, 

A  cow  and  a  cauf,  a  yowe  and  a  hauf, 

The  snaws  the  mountains  cover ; 

And  thretty  gude  shillin's  and  three ; 

Like  winter  on  me  seizes, 

A  vera  gude  tocher,  a  cotter-man's  dochter, 

Since  my  young  Highland  rover 

The  lass  wi'  the  bonnie  black  e'e. 

Far  wanders  nations  over. 

The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpin'  John 

Where'er  he  go,  where'er  he  stray, 

Beguiled  the  bonnie  lassie, 

May  Heaven  be  his  warden : 

The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpin'  John 

Return  him  safe  to  fair  Strathspey, 

Beguiled  the  bonnie  lassie. 

And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon ! 

XLIII 

II. 

The  trees  now  naked  groaning, 

Shall  soon  wi'  leaves  be  hinging. 

UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY 

The  birdies  dowie  moaning, 

Tune—"  Cold  blows  the  wind.'' 

Shall  a'  be  blithely  singing, 

t"  The  chorus  of  this  song,"  says  the  poet,  in  his  notes 

And  every  flower  be  springing. 

on  the  Scottish   Lyrics,  "is  old,  the   two  stanzas  are 

Sae  I'll  rejoice  the  lee-lang  day. 

mine."    The  air  is  ancient,  and  was  a  favourite     » 

When  by  his  mighty  Warden 

Marv  Stuart,  the  queen  of  William  the  Tb'rd.] 

My  youth's  returned  to  fair  Strathspey, 

And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon. 

CHOBTJS. 

Up  in  the  morning's  no  for  me, 
Up  in  the  morning  early  ; 

When  a'  the  hills  are  cover'd  wr  snaw, 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

XLV. 

I. 

HEY,   THE   DUSTY  MILLER. 

Ckv-lh  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west, 

Tune—*'  The  Dusty  Miller." 

The  drift  is  driving  sairly  ; 

Sae  loud  and  shill  I  hear  the  blast, 

[The  Dusty  Miller  is  an  old  strain,  modified  for  th» 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

Museum  by  Burns:  it  is  a  happy  specimen  of  his  tult 
and  skill  in  making  the  new  look  like  the  old.] 

II. 

The  birds  sit  chittering  in  the  thorn, 

I. 
Hey,  the  dusty  miller. 

A'  day  they  fare  but  sparely ; 

And  his  dusty  coat; 

And  lang's  the  night  frae  e'en  to  mom — 

He  will  win  a  shilling, 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

Or  he  spend  a  groat. 

Up  in  the  morning's  no  for  me. 

Dusty  was  the  coat, 

Up  in  the  morning  early ; 

Dusty  was  the  colour, 

When  a'  the  hills  are  cover'd  wi'  snaw, 

Dusty  was  the  kiss 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

15 

That  I  got  frae  the  miller. 

226 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Hey,  the  dusty  miller, 
And  his  dusty  sack  ; 
Leeze  me  (rti  the  calling 
Fills  the  dusty  peck. 

Fills  the  dusty  peck, 

Brings  the  dusty  siller ; 
I  wad  gie  my  coatie 
For  the  dusty  miller. 


XL  VI. 

THERE  WAS   A  LASS. 
Tune — '*  Duncan  Davison." 

[There  are  several  other  versions  of  Duncan  Davleon, 
which  it  is  more  delicate  to  allude  to  than  to  quote:  this 
one  is  in  the  Museum.] 

I. 

There  was  a  lass,  they  ca'd  her  Meg, 

And  she  held  o'er  the  moors  to  spin; 
There  was  a  lad  that  foUow'd  her, 

They  ca'd  him  Duncan  Davison. 
The  moor  was  driegh,  and  Meg  was  skiegh, 

Her  favour  Duncan  could  na  win ; 
For  wi'  the  roke  she  wad  him  knock, 

And  ay  she  shook  the  temper-pin. 


As  o'er  the  moor  they  lightly  foor, 

A  burn  was  clear,  a  glen  was  green, 
Upon  the  banks  they  eas'd-their  shanks. 

And  ay  she  set  the  wheel  between : 
But  Duncan  swore  a  haly  aith, 

That  Meg  should  be  a  bride  the  morn. 
Then  Meg  took  up  her  spinnin'  graith, 

And  flang  them  a'  out  o'er  the  burn. 


We'll  big  a  house, — a  wee,  wee  house, 

And  we  will  live  like  king  and  queen, 
Sae  blythe  and  merry  we  will  be 

When  ye  set  by  the  wheel  at  e'en. 
A  man  may  drink  and  no  be  drunk ; 

A  man  may  fight  and  no  be  slain ; 
A  man  may  kiss  a  bonnie  lass, 

And  ay  be  welcome  back  again. 


XLVII. 


THENIEL  MENZIES'  BONNIE  MARY. 

Tune.—"  The  Ruffian's  Rant:' 

[Burns,  it  is  lelieved,  wrote  this  song  during  his  first 
Highland  tour,  wlien  he  danced  among  the  northern 
dames,  to  the  tune  of  "  Bab  at  the  Bowsrer,'^  till  tli« 
morning  sun  rose  aad  reproved  them  from  the  top  of  Ben 
Lomond.] 


In  coming  by  the  brig  o'  Dye, 

At  Darlet  we  a  blink  did  tarry  ; 
As  day  was  dawin  in  the  sky, 

We  drank  a  health  to  bonnie  Mary. 

Theniel  Menzies'  bonnie  Mary ; 

Theniel  Menzies'  bonnie  Mary; 
Charlie  Gregor  tint  his  plaidie, 
Kissin'  Theniel' s  bonnie  Mary. 


Her  een  sae  bright,  her  brow  sae  white. 
Her  haffet  locks  as  brown's  a  berry ; 

And  ay,  they  dimpl't  wi'  a  smile. 
The  rosy  cheeks  o'  bonnie  Mary. 


We  lap  and  danced  the  lee  lang  day. 

Till  piper  lads  were  wae  and  weary ; 
But  CharHe  gat  the  spring  to  pay, 
For  kissm'  Theniel's  bonnie  Mary. 

Theniel  Menzies'  bonnie  Mary  ; 

Theniel  Menzies'  bonnie  Mary  ; 
Charlie  Gregor  tint  his  plaidie, 
Kissin'  Theniel's  bonnie  Mary. 


XLVIII. 
THE   BANKS   OF   THE   DEVON. 

Tune. — ^^  Bhannerach  dhon  na  chri." 

[These  verses  were  composed  on  a  charming  young 
lady,  Charlotte  Hamilton,  sister  to  the  poet's  friend, 
Gavin  Hamilton  of  Mauchline,  residing,  when  the  song 
was  written,  at  Harvieston,  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon 
in  the  county  of  Clackmannan.] 

i! 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding 
Devon, 
With   green   spreading  bushes,   and  flowtra 
blooming  fair ! 


OF   ROJiEllT   BUKNS.                                        227 

But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the 

III. 

Devon 

But,  Duncan,  gin  ye'll  keep  your  aith — 

Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't! 

Ayr. 

I'se  bless  you  wi'  my  hindmost  breath — 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower, 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't ! 

In  the  gay  rosy  morn,  as  it  bathes  in  the 

Duncan,  gin  ye'll  keep  your  aith. 

dew; 

The  beast  again  can  bear  us  baith. 

And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower, 

And  auld  Mess  John  will  mend  the  skaith, 

That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  re- 
new. 

II. 

And  clout  the  bad  girdin  o't. 

0  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes. 

With  chill  hoary  wing,  as  ye  usher  the  dawn ; 

And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 

L. 

The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and 

lawn ! 

THE   PLOUGHMAN. 

Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  Lilies, 

Tune — "  Up  wi'  the  ploughman.'^ 

And  England,  triumphant,  display  her  proud 
Rose: 

[The  old  words,  of  which  these  in  the  Museum  are  a« 

altered  and  amended  version,  are  in  the  collection  ot 

A  fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  valleys, 

Herd.] 

Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering  flows. 

I. 

The  ploughman  he's  a  bonnie  lad. 

His  mind  is  ever  true,  jo. 

His  garters  knit  below  his  knee. 

His  bonnet  it  is  blue,  jo. 

XLIX. 

Then  up  wi'  him  my  ploughman  lad, 

WEARY   FA'    YOU,  DUNCAN  GRAY. 

And  hey  my  merry  ploughman  I 

Of  a'  the  trades  that  I  do  ken. 

TvLne—*'Duncan  Gray." 

Commend  me  to  the  ploughman. 

[The  original  Duncan  Gray,  out  of  which  the  present 

Btrain  was  extracted  for  Johnson,  had  no  right  to  be  called 

II. 

a  lad  of  grace :  another  version,  and  m  a  happier  mood, 

My  ploughman  he  comes  hame  at  e'en, 

was  written  for  Thomson.] 

He's  aften  wat  and  weary ; 

I. 

Cast  oflF  the  wat,  put  on  the  dry, 

Weary  fa'  you,  Duncan  Gray— 

And  gae  to  bed,  my  dearie ! 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't ! 

III. 

Wae  gae  by  you,  Duncan  Gray— 

I  will  wash  my  ploughman's  hose, 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't ! 

And  I  will  dress  his  o'erlay ; 

When  a'  the  lave  gae  to  their  play, 

I  will  mak  my  ploughman's  bed, 

Then  I  maun  sit  the  lee  lang  day, 

And  cheer  him  late  and  early. 

And  jog  the  cradle  wi'  my  tae, 

And  a'  for  the  girdin  o'tl 

IV. 

I  hae  been  east,  I  hae  been  west, 

11. 

I  hae  been  at  Saint  Johnston ; 

Bonnie  was  the  Lammas  moon — 

The  bonniest  sight  that  e'er  I  saw- 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't ! 

Was  the  ploughman  laddie  dancin*. 

Glowrin'  a'  the  hills  aboon — 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o't ! 

V. 

The  girdin  brak,  the  beast  cam  down. 

Sn aw- white  stockins  on  his  legs, 

I  tint  my  curch,  and  baith  my  shoon  ; 

And  siller  buckles  glancin' , 

Ah  !  Duncan,  ye're  an  unco  loon — 

A  gude  blue  bonnet  on  his  head — 

Wae  on  the  bad  girdin  o't ! 

And  0,  but  he  was  handsome ' 

228                                    THE   POETICAL   WORKS                                            | 

VI. 

death  of  her  sister,  and  the  still  more  melancho.  y  death 

Commend  me  to  the  barn-yard, 

of  her  sister's  husband,  the  late  Earl  of  Loudon,  in  1796."] 

And  the  corn-mou,  man; 

I. 

I  never  gat  my  coggie  fou, 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing, 

Till  I  met  wi'  the  ploughman. 

Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  strowing. 

Up  wi'  him  my  ploughman  lad, 

By  a  river  hoarsely  roaring, 

And  hey  my  merry  ploughman ! 

Isabella  stray'd  deploring — 

Of  a'  the  trades  that  I  do  ken, 

"  Farewell  hours  that  late  did  measure 

Commend  me  to  the  ploughman. 

Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure; 

Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 

Cheerless  night  that  knows  no  morrow  I 

LI. 
LANDLADY,   COUNT   THE  LAWIN. 

II. 

"  O'er  the  past  too  fondly  wandering, 
On  the  hopeless  future  pondering ; 

Tune— "i%  iutti,  taiti." 

Chilly  grief  my  life-blood  freezes. 

[Of  thia  song,  the  first  and  second  verses  are  by  Burns : 

Fell  despair  my  fancy  seizes. 

the  closing  verse  belongs  to  a  strain  threatening  Britain 

Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing, 

with  an  invasion  from  the  iron-handed  Charles  XII.  of 

Load  to  misery  most  distressing. 

Sweden,  to  avenge  his  own  wrongs  and  restore  the  line 

Gladly  how  would  I  resign  thee. 

of  the  Stuarts.] 

I. 

And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee !" 

Landlady,  count  the  lawin. 

The  day  is  near  the  dawin ; 

Ye're  a'  blind  drunk,  boys, 

And  I'm  but  jolly  fou, 

Hey  tutti,  taiti. 

LIII. 

How  tutti,  taiti— 
Wha's  fou  now  ? 

HOW  LONG  AND  DREARY  IS  THE  NIGHT. 

To  a  Gaelic  air. 

11. 

[Composed  for  the  Museum :  the  air  of  this  affectinf 

Cog  an'  ye  were  ay  fou. 

strain  is  true  Highland  :  Burns,  though  not  a  musician. 

Cog  an'  ye  were  ay  fou. 

had  a  fine  natural  taste  in  the  matter  of  national  melo 

I  wad  sit  and  sing  to  you 

dies.] 

If  ye  were  ay  fou. 

I. 

III. 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night 

Weel  may  ye  a'  be ! 
Ill  may  we  never  see  1 
God  bless  the  king. 
And  the  companie! 
Hey  tutti,  taiti, 

When  I  am  frae  my  dearie  ! 
I  sleepless  lie  frae  e'en  to  morn, 

Tho'  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 
I  sleepless  lie  frae  e'en  to  morn, 

Tho'  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 

How  tutti,  taiti— 

II. 

,     Wha's  fou  now  ? 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 

I  spent  wi'  you,  my  dearie. 
And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie. 

How  can  I  but  be  eerie  ! 

LII. 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie. 

EAVING  WINDS  AROUND  HER  BLOWING. 

How  can  I  be  but  eerie ! 

Tune — "  Macgregor  of  Euro's  Lament." 

III. 

["I  composed  these  verses,"  says  Burns,  "on  Miss 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours, 

Isabella  M'Leod,  of  Raza,  alluding  to  he  •  feelings  on  the 

As  ye  were  wae  and  weary! 

UJ^'   ROBERT  BURNS.                                       22? 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

I. 

When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

By  Auchtertyre  grows  the  aik. 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw ; 

When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

But  Phemie  was  a  bonnier  lass 

Than  braes  of  Yarrow  ever  saw. 
II. 

LTV. 

Her  looks  were  like  a  flow'r  in  ]May, 

MUSING  ON  THE  ROARING  OCEAN. 

Her  smile  was  like  a  simmer  morn ; 

Tune — ^*  Druimion  dubh." 

She  tripped  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 

As  light 's  a  bird  upon  a  thorn. 

[The  air  of  this  song  is  from  the  Highlands :  the  verses 

were  written  in  compliment  to  the   feelings  of  Mrs. 

III. 

M'Lauchlan,  whose  husband  was  an  officer  serving  in 

the  East  Indies.] 

Her  bonnie  face  it  was  as  meek 

I. 

As  ony  lamb  upon  a  lea ; 

The  evening  sun  was  ne'er  sae  sweet. 

MusiNQ  on  the  roaring  ocean, 

As  was  the  blink  o'  Phemie's  ee 

Which  divides  my  love  and  me ; 

Wearying  heaven  in  warm  devotion, 

IV. 

For  his  weal  where'er  he  be. 

The  Highland  hills  I've  wander'd  wide, 

II. 

And  o'er  the  Lowlands  I  hae  been ; 

But  Phemie  was  the  blithest  lass 

Hope  and  fear's  alternate  billow 

That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 

Yielding  late  to  nature's  law, 

Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she. 

Whisp'ring  spirits  round  my  pillow 

Blithe  was  she  but  and  ben: 

Talk  of  him  that's  far  awa. 

Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 

III. 

And  blithe  in  Glenturit  glen. 

Ye  whom  sorrow  never  wounded. 
Ye  who  never  shed  a  tear. 

Care-untroubled,  joy-surrounded. 

Gaudy  day  to  you  is  dear. 

LVI. 

THE   BLUDE   RED   ROSE  AT   YULE 

IV. 

MAY   BLAW. 

Gentle  night,  do  thou  befriend  me ; 

Downy  sleep,  the  curtain  draw; 

Tune — "  To  daunton  me." 

Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me. 

[The  Jacobite  strain  of  "To  daunton  me,"  must  havi 

Talk  of  him  that's  far  awa  I 

been  in  the  mind  of  the  poet  when  he  wrote  this  pithy 

lyric  for  the  Museum.] 

I. 
The  blude  red  rose  at  Yule  may  blaw, 

LV. 

The  simmer  lilies  bloom  in  snaw. 

BLITHE  WAS   SHE. 

The  frost  may  freeze  the  deepest  sea ; 

Tune— "^nrfro  and  hia  cutty  gun." 

But  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

[The  heroine  of  this  song,  Euphemia  Murray,  of  Lin- 

To  daunton  tne,  and  me  so  ycang. 

Irose  was  justly  called  the  "  Flower  of  Strathmore :" 

Wi'  his  fause  heart  and  flatt'ring  tongue 

Bhe  is  now  widow  of  Lord  Metliven,  one  of  the  Scottish 

That  is  the  thing  you  ne'er  shall  see ; 

judges,  and  mother  of  a  fine  family.    The  song  was 

For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

Irritten  at  Ochtertyre,  in  June  1787.] 

CHORUS. 

II. 

Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she, 

For  a'  his  meal  and  a'  his  maut. 

Blithe  was  she  but  and  ben: 

For  a'  his  fresh  beef  and  his  saut, 

Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 

For  a'  his  gold  and  white  monie. 

And  blithe  in  Gleuturit  glon. 

An  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

230                                   THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

III. 

LVIII. 

His  gear  may  buy  him  kye  and  yowes, 

A  ROSE-BUD  BY  MY  EARLY  WALK. 

His  gear  may  buy  him  glens  and  knowes ; 

But  me  he  shall  not  buy  nor  fee, 

Tune—"  The  Rose-bud." 

For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

[The  "  Rose-bud"  of  these  sweet  verses  was  Misi 

Jean  Cruikshank,  afterwards  Mrs.  Henderson,  daughter 

IV. 

of  William  Cruikshank,  of  St.  James's  Square,  one  of 

the  masters  of  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh :   she  il 

He  hirples  twa  fauld  as  he  doTV, 

also  the  subject  of  a  poem  equally  sweet.] 

Wi'  his  teethless  gab  and  his  auld  held  pow, 

T 

And  the  rain  rains  down  frae  his  red  bleer'd  ee — 

A  ROSE-BUD  by  my  early  walk. 

That  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

Adown  a  corn-enclosed  bawk, 

To  daunton  me,  and  me  sae  young, 

Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk. 

Wi'  his  fause  heart  and  Jlatt'ring  tongue, 

All  on  a  dewy  morning. 

That  is  the  thing  you  ne'er  shall  see ; 

Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  are  fled. 

For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread, 

And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head. 

It  scents  the  early  morning. 

II. 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest 

LVll. 

A  little  linnet  fondly  prest. 

COME  BOAT  ME  O'ER  TO  CHARLIE. 

The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 

Tune — "  O'er  the  water  to  Charlie." 

Sae  early  in  the  morning. 

She  soon  shall  see  her  tender  brood, 

[The  second  stanza  of  this  song,  and  nearly  all  the 

The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  wood. 

third,  are  by  Burns.    Many  songs,  some  of  merit,  on  the 

Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew'd. 

same  subject,  and  to  the  same  air,  were  in  other  days 

current  in  Scotland.] 

Awake  the  early  morning. 

I. 

Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er, 

III. 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jeany  fair, 

Come  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie ; 

On  trembling  string  or  vocal  air. 

I'll  gie  John  Ross  another  bawbee, 

Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 

To  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie. 

That  tends  thy  early  morning. 

We'll  o'er  the  water  and  o'er  the  sea, 

So  thou,  sweet  rose-bud,  young  and  gay. 

We'll  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie ; 

Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day. 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  we'll  gather  and  go, 

And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray 

And  live  or  die  wi'  Charlie. 

That  watch'd  thy  early  morning. 

II. 

I  lo'e  weel  my  Charlie's  name, 

LIX. 

Tho'  some  there  be  abhor  him  : 

But  0,  to  see  auld  Nick  gaun  hame, 

RATTLIN',   ROARIN'   WILLIE. 

Ani  Charlie's  faes  before  him! 

Tune — '*  Rattlin',  roarin*  Willie." 

III. 

["  The  hero  of  this  chant,"  says  Burns   "was  one  cf 

the  worthiest  fellows  in  the  world — William  Dunbar, 

I  swear  and  vow  by  moon  and  stars, 

Esq.,  Writer  to  the  Signet,  Edinburgh,  and  Colonel  o. 

And  sun  that  shines  so  early, 

the  Crochallan  corps— a  club  of  wits,  who  took  that  titl« 

If  I  had  twenty  thousand  lives, 

at  the  time  of  raising  the  fencible  regiments."] 

I'd  die  as  aft  for  Charlie. 

I. 

We'll  o'er  the  water  and  o'er  the  sea. 

0  rattlin',  roarin*  Willie, 

We'll  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie ; 

0,  he  held  to  the  fair, 

Come  weal,  come  woe,  we'll  gather  and  go, 

An'  for  to  sell  his  fiddle. 

1                   And  live  or  die  wi'  Charlie ! 

An'  buy  some  other  ware ; 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


231 


But  parting  wi'  his  fiddle, 
The  saut  tear  blint  his  ee  ; 

And  rattlin',  roarin'  Willie, 
Ye're  welcome  hame  to  me  I 


0  Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle, 

0  sell  your  fiddle  sae  fine ; 
0  Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle, 

And  buy  a  pint  o'  wine ! 
If  I  should  sell  my  fiddle, 

The  warl'  would  think  I  was  mad ; 
For  mony  a  rantin'  day 

My  fiddle  and  I  hae  had. 

III. 

As  I  cam  by  Crochallan, 

1  cannily  keekit  ben — 
Rattlin',  roarin'  Willie 

Was  sittin'  at  yon  board  en' ; 
Sitting  at  yon  board  en'. 

And  amang  good  companie ; 
Rattlin',  roarin'  Willie, 

Ye're  welcome  hame  to  me  ! 


LX. 

BRAVING  ANGRY  WINTER'S  STORMS. 

Tune — **  Neil  Gow^s  Lamentation  for  Abercairny." 

["  This  song,"  says  the  poet,  "  I  composed  on  one  of 
the  most  accomplished  of  women.  Miss  Peggy  Chalmers 
fiiat  was,  now  Mrs.  Lewis  Hay,  of  Forbes  and  Co.'b 
oank,  Edinburgh."  She  now  lives  at  Pau^  in  the  south 
»f  France.] 

I. 
Where,  braving  angry  winter's  storms, 

The  lofty  Ochels  rise. 
Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy's  charms 

First  blest  my  wondering  eyes  ; 
As  one  who  by  some  savage  stream, 

A  lonely  gem  surveys, 
Astonish'd,  doubly  marks  its  beam, 
With  art's  most  polish'd  blaze. 


II. 

Blest  be  the  wild,  sequester'd  shade. 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour. 
Where  Peggy's  charms  I  first  survey'd. 

When  first  I  felt  their  power !. 
The  tyrant  Death,  with  grim  control. 

May  seize  my  fleeting  breath ; 
But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 

Must  be  a  stronger  death. 


LXI. 

TIBBIE   DUNBAR. 

Tune — "  Johnny  JW  Gill." 

[We  owe  the  air  of  this  song  tD  one  Johnny  M'Gill,  \ 
fiddler  of  Girvan,  who  bestowed  his  own  name  on  it :  and 
the  song  itself  partly  to  Burns  and  partly  to  somo  ja 
known  minstrel.    They  are  both  in  the  Museum.] 

I. 
0,  WILT  thou  go  wi'  me, 

Sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 
0,  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me, 

Sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 
Wilt  thou  ride  on  a  horse, 

Or  be  drawn  in  a  car. 
Or  walk  by  my  side,* 

0,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

II. 
I  care  na  thy  daddie. 

His  lands  and  his  money, 
I  care  na  thy  kindred, 

Sae  high  and  sae  lordly  ? 
But  say  thox\  wilt  hae  me 

For  better  for  waur — 
And  come  in  thy  coatie. 

Sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar' 


LXII. 

STREAMS    THAT    GLIDE   IN 
ORIENT  PLAINS. 

Tune — "  Morag." 

[We  owe  these  verses  to  the  too  brief  visit  which  the 
poet,  in  1787,  made  to  Gordon  Castle :  he  was  hurried 
away,  much  against  his  will,  by  his  moody  ana  obslinat* 
friend  William  Nicol.] 


Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains, 
Never  bound  by  winter's  chains  ; 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 
There  commix'd  with  foulest  stains 

From  tyranny's  empurpled  bands ; 
These,  their  richly  gleaming  waves, 
I  leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves ; 
Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 

The  banks  by  Castle-Gordon. 


Spicy  forests,  ever  gay, 
Shading  from  the  burning  ray. 
Hapless  wretches  sold  to  toil, 


232 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Or  the  ruthless  native's  way, 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil: 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 
I  leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave, 
Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 
The  storms  by  Castle-Gordon. 


Wildly  here  without  control, 
Natui'e  reigns  and  rules  the  whole ; 

In  that  sober  pensive  mood, 
Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul. 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood ; 
Life's  poor  day  I'll  musing  rave. 
And  find  at  night  a  sheltering  cave. 
Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave, 
By  bonnie  Castle-Gordon. 


Lxni. 

MY  HARRY  WAS  A  GALLANT   GAY. 

Tune — ^^Highlander's  Lament" 

["  The  chorus,"  says  Burns,  "  I  picked  up  from  an  old 
Woman  in  Dumblane  :  the  rest  of  the  song  is  mine."  He 
tomposed  it  for  Johnson :  the  tone  is  Jacobitical.J 

I. 

]My  Harry  was  a  gallant  gay, 

Fu'  stately  strode  he  on  the  plain: 

But  now  he's  banish'd  far  away, 
I'll  never  see  him  back  again. 

0  for  him  back  again ! 

0  for  him  back  again ! 

1  wad  gie  a'  Knockhaspie's  land 

For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 


When  a'  the  lave  gae  to  their  bed, 
I  wander  dowie  up  the  glen; 

I  set  me  down  and  greet  my  fill. 
And  ay  I  wish  him  back  again. 


0  were  some  villains  hangit  high, 
And  ilka  body  had  their  ain ! 

Then  I  might  see  the  joyfu'  sight, 
My  Highland  Harry  back  again. 

0  for  him  back  again  ! 

0  for  him  back  again  ! 

1  wad  gie  a'  Knockhaspie's  land 

For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 


LXIV. 

THE   TAILOR. 

Tune—"  The  Tailor  fell  thro'   the  bed,  thimble* 


[The  second  and  fourth  verses  are  by  Burns,  the  reu* 
is  very  old,  the  air  is  also  veiyold,  and  is  played  attrad« 
festivals  and  processions  by  the  Corporation  of  Tailori  J 


The  Tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed,  thimbles  an'  a', 
The  Tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed,  thimbles  an'  a' ; 
The  blankets  were  thin,  and  the  sheets  they 

were  sma', 
The  Tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed,  thimbles  an'  a' 


The  sleepy  bit  lassie,  she  dreaded  nae  ill. 
The  sleepy  bit  lassie,  she  dreaded  nae  ill ; 
The  weather  was  cauld,  and  the  lassie  lay  still, 
She  thought  that  a  tailor  could  do  her  nae  ill. 


Gie  me  the  groat  again,  canny  young  man  ; 
Gie  me  the  groat  again,  canny  young  man ; 
The  day  it  is  short,  and  the  night  it  is  lang, 
The  dearest  siller  that  ever  I  wan ! 


There's  somebody  weary  wi'  lying  her  lane ; 
There's  somebody  weary  wi'  lying  her  lane  ; 
There's  some  that  are  dowie,  I  trow  would  be 

fain 
To  see  the  bit  tailor  come  skippin'  again. 


LXV. 
SIMMER'S  A  PLEASANT   TIME. 

Tune — *'At/  waukin  o'." 

[Tytlerand  Ritson  unite  in  considei  .<ng  the  airof  thes« 
words  as  one  of  our  most  ancient  melociies.  The  first 
verse  of  the  song  is  from  the  hand  of  Burns  ;  the  rest  had 
the  benefit  of  his  emendations :  it  is  to  be  found  in  tli« 
Museum.] 


Simmer's  a  pleasant  time, 
Flow'rs  of  ev'ry  colour ; 
The  water  rins  o'er  the  heugh. 
And  I  long  for  my  true  lover. 
Ay  waukin  0, 

Waukin  still  and  wearie : 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 


OF  KOBERT   BURNS. 


23a 


II. 

the  work  of  Burns.    Every  trade  had,  in  other  dayi,  an 

When  I  sleep  I  dream, 

air  of  its  own,  and  songs  to  correspond  ;   but  toil  and 
sweat  came  in  harder  measure,  and  drove  melodies  oat 

When  I  wauk  I'm  eerie  ; 

of  worising-men's  heads.] 

Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 

I. 

When  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers, 

III. 

To  deck  her  gay  green-spreading  lowers, 

Laneiy  night  comes  on, 

Then  busy,  busy  are  his  hours — 

A'  the  lave  are  sleeping ; 

The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 

I  think  on  my  bonnie  lad 

The  crystal  waters  gently  fa' ; 

And  I  bleer  my  een  with  greetin'. 

The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a' ; 

Ay  waukin  0, 

The  scented  breezes  round  him  blaw — 

Waukin  still  and  wearie : 

The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 

Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 

II. 

LXVI. 

BEWARE   0'   BONNIE  ANN. 

Tune — **  Ye  gallants  briffht." 

tBurns  wrote  this  song  in  honour  of  Ann  Masterton, 
daughter  of  Allan  Masterton,  author  of  the  air  of  Strath- 
allan's  Lament :  she  is  now  Mrs.  Derbishire,  and  re- 
sides in  London.] 

I. 

Ye  gallants  bright,  I  red  ye  right, 

Beware  o*  bonnie  Ann  ; 
Her  comely  face  sae  fu'  o'  grace. 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan. 
Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  night, 

Her  skin  is  like  the  swan ; 
Sae  jimply  lac'd  her  genty  waist, 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 


Youth,  grace,  and  love  attendant  move. 

And  pleasure  leads  the  van : 
In  a'  their  charms,  and  conquering  arms, 

They  wait  on  bonnie  Ann. 
The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  hands, 

But  love  enslaves  the  man ; 
Ye  gallants  braw,  I  red  you  a'. 

Beware  o'  bonnie  Ann ! 


LXVII. 

WHEN  ROSY  MAY. 

Tune — **  The  gardener  wV  his  paidle^ 

[The  nir  of  this  song  is  played  anrually  nt  the  proces- 
Bio£  of  the  Gardeners :  the  title  only  is  old ;  the  rest  is 


When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare 

To  steal  upon  her  early  fare, 

Then  thro'  the  dews  he  maun  repair— 

The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 
When  day,  expiring  in  the  west. 
The  curtain  draws  of  nature's  rest, 
He  flies  to  her  arms  he  lo'es  best — 

The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 


Lxvm. 

BLOOMING   NELLY. 

Tune — "  On  a  hank  of  flowers.** 

[One  of  the  lyrics  of  Allan  Ramsay's  collection 
to  have  beo^  in  the  mind  of  Burns  when  he  wrrote  this  i 
the  words  and  air  are  in  the  Museum.] 

I. 

On  a  bank  of  flowers,  in  a  summer  day. 

For  summer  lightly  drest. 
The  youthful  blooming  Nelly  lay. 

With  love  and  sleep  opprest ; 
When  Willie  wand'ring  thro'  the  wood. 

Who  for  her  favour  oft  had  sued. 
He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd,  he  fear'd,  he  blush'a. 

And  trembled  where  he  stood. 


Her  closed  eyes  like  weapons  sheath'd. 

Were  seal'd  in  soft  repose ; 
Her  lips  still  as  she  fragrant  breath'd, 

It  richer  dy'd  the  rose. 
The  springing  lilies  sweetly  prest, 

Wild — wanton,  kiss'd  her  rival  breast; 
He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd,  he  fear'd,  he  bludi'd- 

His  bosom  ill  at  rest 


'  234                                  THE   POETICAL  WORKS                                           | 

III. 

keep  their  place :  the  title  is  old.    Both  words  and  au 

Her  robes  light  waving  in  the  breeze 

are  in  the  Musical  Museum.] 

Her  tender  limbs  embrace ; 

I. 

Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease, 

My  love  she's  but  a  lassie  yet. 

All  harmony  and  grace: 

My  love  she's  but  a  lassie  yet, 

Tumultuous  tides  his  pulses  roll, 

We'll  let  her  stand  a  year  or  twa, 

A  faltering,  ardent  kiss  he  stole ; 

She'll  no  be  half  so  saucy  yet. 

He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd,  he  fear'd,  he  blush'd, 

I  rue  the  day  I  sought  her,  0  ; 

And  sigh'd  his  very  soul. 

I  rue  the  day  I  sought  her,  0  ; 

IV. 

Wha  gets  her  needs  na  say  he's  woo'd, 

As  flies  the  partridge  from  the  brake, 

But  he  may  say  he's  bought  her,  0 ! 

On  fear-inspired  wings, 

T  T 

So  Nelly,  starting,  half  awake. 

Away  affrighted  springs : 

Come,  draw  a  drap  o'  the  best  o't  yet ; 

But  Willie  follow'd,  as  he  should, 

Come,  draw  a  drap  o'  the  best  o't  yet ; 

He  overtook  her  in  a  wood; 

Gae  seek  for  pleasure  where  ye  will. 

He  vow'd,  he  pray'd,  he  found  the  maid 

But  here  I  never  miss'd  it  yet. 

Forgiving  all  and  good. 

We're  a'  dry  wi'  drinking  o't ; 

We're  a'  dry  wi'  drinking  o't ; 

The  minister  kiss'd  the  fiddler's  wife. 

LXIX. 

An'  could  na  preach  for  thinkin'  o't. 

THE  DAY  RETURNS. 

Txine—"  Seventh  of  November:' 

[The  seventh  of  November  was  the  anniversary  of  the 

LXXT. 

marriage  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Riddel,  of  Friars-Carse,  and 

these  verses  vvrere  composed  in  compliment  to  the  day.] 

JAMIE,    COME    TRY    ME. 

I. 

Tune — "  Jamy,  come  try  we." 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

[Burns  in  these  verses  caught  up  the  starting  note  of 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet. 

an  old  song,  of  which  little  more  than  the  starting  word* 

Tho'  winter  wild  in  tempest  toil'd. 

deserve  to  be  remembered :  the  words  and  air  are  in  the 

Ne'er  summer-sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 

Musical  Museum.] 

Than  a'  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide. 

CHORUS. 

And  crosses  o'er  the  sultry  line  ; 

Jamie,  come  try  me, 

Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  globes. 

Jamie,  come  try  me  ; 

Heaven  gave  me  more — it  made  thee  mine  ! 

If  thou  would  win  my  love, 

II. 

Jamie,  come  try  me. 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight. 

I. 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give. 

While  joys  above  my  mind  can  move. 

If  thou  should  ask  my  love, 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone  I  live. 

Could  I  deny  thee  ? 

When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below. 

If  thou  would  win  my  love. 

Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part. 

Jamie,  come  try  me. 

The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 

It  breaks  my  bliss — it  breaks  mj  heart. 

II. 

If  thou  should  kiss  me,  love, 
Wha  could  espy  thee  ? 

LXX. 

If  thou  wad  be  my  love. 

Jamie,  come  try  me. 

MY  LOVE  SHE'S  BUT  A  LASSIE  YET. 

Jamie,  come  try  me. 

Tune — "  Lady  Bandinscoth's  Reel." 

Jamie,  come  try  me; 

[These  verses  had   their  origin  in  an  olden  strain, 

If  thou  would  win  my  love, 

equally  lively  and  less  delicate :  some  of  the  old  linea 

Jamie,  come  try  me. 

OF   ROBEliT   BUIINS. 


235 


LXXII. 
MY  BONNIE   MARY. 

Tune — "  Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  mne.^' 

[Concerning  this  fine  song,  Burns  in  his  notes  says, 
<  This  air  is  Oswai  I's  :  the  first  half-stuuzti  of  tlie  song  is 
old,  the  rest  is  mine."  It  is  believed,  however,  that  the 
svhoi  »  >'  the  song  is  from  his  hand  :  in  Hogg  and  Mother- 
tvell'i  Silition  of  Burns,  the  starting  lines  are  supplied 
from  an  olden  strain :  but  some  of  tlie  old  strains  in  that 
work  are  to  be  regarded  with  suspicion.] 

I. 
Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 

An'  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie  ; 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie ; 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith  ; 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry ; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 


The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready ; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody  ; 
It's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar — 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 


LXXIII. 

THE    LAZY    MIST. 
Tune—"  The  lazy  mist:' 

[All  that  Burns  says  about  the  authorship  of  The  Lazy 
Mist,  is,  "  This  song  is  mine."  The  air,  which  is  by  Os- 
wald, together  with  the  words,  is  in  the  Musical  Muse- 
um.] 

I. 

The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
Concealing  the  course  of  the  dark  winding  rill ; 
How  languid  the  scenes,  late  so  sprightly,  ap- 
pear ! 
As  Autumn  to  Winter  resigns  the  pale  year. 
The  forests  are  leafless,  the  meadows  are  brown, 
And  all  the  gay  foppery  of  summer  is  flown: 
Apart  let  me  wander,  apart  let  me  muse, 
How  quick  Time  is  flying,  how  keen  Fate  pur- 


How  long  have  I  liv'd,  but  how  much  liv'd  in 

vain! 
How  little  of  life's  scanty  span  may  remain ! 
What  aspects,  old  Time,  in  his  progress,  has 

worn! 
What  ties  cruel  Fate  in  my  bosom  has  torn ! 
How  foolish,  or  worse,  till  our  summit  is  gain'd' 
And  downward,  how  weaken'd,  how  darken' d, 

how  pain'd ! 
Life  is  not  worth  having  with  all  it  can  give — 
For  something  beyond  it  poor  man  sure  must 

live. 


LXXIV. 

THE   CAPTAIN'S   LADY. 

Tune — "  0  mount  and  go.'' 

[Part  of  tliis  song  belongs  to  an  old  maritime  strain, 
with  the  same  title:  it  was  communicated,  along  with 
many  other  songs,  made  or  amended  by  Burns,  to  the 
Musical  Museum.] 

CHORUS. 

0  mount  and  go. 

Mount  and  make  you  ready ; 
0  mount  and  go. 

And  be  the  Captain's  Lady. 


When  the  drums  do  beat, 
And  the  cannons  rattle. 

Thou  shall  sit  in  state, 
And  see  thy  love  in  battle. 


When  the  vanquish'd  foe 

Sues  for  peace  and  quiet, 
To  the  shades  we'll  go. 
And  in  love  enjoy  it. 
0  mount  and  go, 

Mount  and  make  you  ready ; 
0  mount  and  go. 
And  be  the  Captain's  Lady. 


LXXV. 

OF  A'  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN  BLAW 
Tune — *^  Miss  Admiral  Gordon's  Strathspey." 

[Burns  wrote  this  charming  song  in  honourof  Jean  Ai 
mour :  he  archly  says  in  his  notes,  "  P.  S.  it  was  durini 


230 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


the  honey-moon."    Other  versions  are  abroad ;  this  one 
is  from  the  manuscripts  of  the  poet.] 


Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
There  wild-woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 


I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean 


0  blaw,  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang  the  leafy  trees, 
Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale 

Bring  hame  the  laden  bees  ; 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean ; 
Ae  smile  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 


What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 

Hae  passed  atween  us  twa ! 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part, 

That  night  she  gaed  awa  ! 
The  powers  aboon  can  only  ken, 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 

As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean  I 


LXXVI. 

FIRST  WHEN    MAGGY  WAS    MY 
CARE. 

Tune — "  Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't." 

[The  air  of  this  song  was  composed  by  John  Bruce,  of 
Dumfries,  n»  asician  •  the  words,  though  originating  in  an 


olden  strain,  are  wholly  by  Burns,  and  right  bitter  onei 
they  are.    The  words  and  air  are  in  the  Museum.] 


First  when  Maggy  was  my  care, 
Heaven,  I  thought,  was  in  her  air ; 
Now  we're  married — spier  nae  mair- 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. — 
Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg  was  mild, 
Bonnie  Meg  was  nature's  child  ; 
Wiser  men  than  me's  beguil'd — 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 


How  we  live,  my  Meg  and  me, 
How  we  love,  and  how  we  'gree, 
I  care  na  by  how  few  may  see ; 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. — 
Wha  I  wish  were  maggot's  meat, 
Dish'd  up  in  her  winding  sheet, 
I  could  write — but  Meg  maun  see't- 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 


LXXVII. 


0   WERE   I   ON   PARNASSUS   HILL. 

Tune — "My  love  is  lost  to  mc." 

[The  poet  welcomed  with  this  exquisite  song  his  wife 
to  Nithsdale :  the  air  is  one  of  Oswald's.] 


0,  WERE  I  on  Parnassus'  hill ! 
Or  had  of  Helicon  my  fill ; 
That  I  might  catch  poetic  skill. 

To  sing  how  dear  I  love  thee. 
But  Nith  maun  be  my  Muse's  well ; 
My  Muse  maun  be  thy  bonnie  sel': 
On  Corsincon  I'll  glow'r  and  spell, 

And  write  how  dear  I  love  thee. 


Then  come,  sweet  Muse,  inspire  my  lay  I 
For  a'  the  lee-lang  simmer's  day 
I  coudna  sing,  I  coudna  say. 

How  much,  how  dear,  I  love  thee. 
I  see  thee  dancing  o'er  the  green, 
Thy  waist  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clean, 
Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  cen  — 

By  heaven  and  earth  I  lovs  thee ! 


By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame. 
The  thoughts  o'  thee  my  breast  inflame 


► 


J  M  Wnjht. 


Bnl   now  your  brow  is  bc]d  John. 
Yotir  locks  are  like  Ihe  snow; 
0  Bui   blessings    on  your  frosLy  pow- 
John  Anderson  ray  Jo- 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS. 


237 


And  aye  I  muse  and  sing  thy  name — 

I  only  live  to  love  thee. 
Tho'  I  were  doom'd  to  wander  on 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 
Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run ; 
Till  then— and  then  I  love  thee. 


LXXVIII. 

THERE'S  A  YOUTH   IN  THIS  CITY. 

To  a  Gaelic  Air. 

["This  air,"  says  Burns,. <' is  claimed  by  Neil  Gow, 
who  calls  it  a  Lament  for  his  Brother.  The  first  half- 
stanza  of  the  snng  is  old :  the  rest  is  mine."  They  are 
both  in  the  Museum.] 

I. 

There's  a  youth  in  this  city, 

It  were  a  great  pity 
That  he  frae  our  lasses  shou'd  wander  awa : 

For  he's  bonnie  an'  braw, 

Weel-favour'd  an'  a, 
And  his  hair  has  a  natural  buckle  an'  a'. 

His  coat  is  the  hue 

Of  his  bonnet  sae  blue ; 
His  feck  it  is  white  as  the  new-driven  snaw ; 

His  hose  they  are  blae, 

And  his  shoon  like  the  slae, 
And  his  clear  siller  buckles  they  dazzle  us  a'. 

II. 

For  beauty  and  fortune 

The  laddie's  been  courtin' ; 
Weel-featured,  weel-tocher'd,  weel-monnted  and 
braw; 

But  chiefly  the  siller, 

That  gars  him  gang  till  her, 
The  pennie's  the  jewel  that  beautifies  a'. 

There's  Meg  wi'  the  mailen 

That  fain  wad  a  haen  him ; 
And  Susie,  whose  daddy  was  laird  o'  the  ha' ; 

There's  lang-tocher'd  Nancy 

Maisl  fetters  his  fancy — 
But  the  laddie's  dear  sel'  he  lo'es  dearest  of  a'. 


LXXIX. 
MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

Tune — '^Failte  na  Mioag." 

rThe  words  and  the  air  are  in  the  Museum,  to  which 
iiey  were  contributed  by  Burns.    He  says,  in  his  notes 


on  that  collection,  "  The  first  half-stanza  of  this  song  ii 
old;  the  rest  mine."  Of  the  old  strain  no  one  has  re- 
corded any  remembrance.] 

I. 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here ; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer ; 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  — 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birth-place  of  valour,  the  country  of  worth : 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 

II. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  cover'd  with 

snow; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below : 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands   a-chasing  the 

deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe — ■ 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 


LXXX. 

JOHN  ANDERSON. 

Tune — "  John  Anderson,  my  jo" 

[Soon  after  the  death  of  Burns,  the  very  handsome 
Miscellanies  of  Brash  and  Reid,  of  Glasgow,  contained 
what  was  called  an  improved  John  Anderson,  from  the 
pen  of  the  Ayrshire  bard ;  but,  save  the  second  stanza, 
none  of  the  new  matter  looked  like  his  hand. 
*«  Jolm  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 
When  nature  first  began 
To  try  her  cannie  hand,  John, 
Her  master-piece  was  man ; 
And  you  amang  them  a',  John, 

Sae  trig  frae  tap  to  toe. 
She  proved  to  be  nae  joumeywork, 
John  Anderson,  my  jo.] 


John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven. 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent  ; 
Bnt  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw  ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


238                                  THE  POETICAL  WORKS                                           1 

II. 

LXXXII. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 

CA'   THE  EWES. 

And  raony  a  canty  day,  John, 

Tune—"  Ca*  the  ewes  to  the  knowes." 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither : 

Now  "we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

[Most  of  thig  sweet  pastoral  is  of  other  days:  Buma 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go ; 

made  several  emendations,  and   added   the  concluding 

verse.    He  afterwards,  it  will  be  observed,  wrote  for 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

Thomson  a  second  version  of  the  subject  and  the  air,] 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

CHORUS. 

fift'  thp  PTTPa  to  flip  IrnoTiTPa 

Ca'  them  whare  the  heather  grows, 

LXXXI. 

Ca'  them  whare  the  burnie  rowes. 

OUR    THRISSLES    FLOURISHED 

My  bonnie  dearie ! 

FRESH   AND   FAIR. 

I. 

Tune — "  Awa  Wliigs,  awa." 

As  I  gaed  down  the  water-side, 

[Burns  trimmed  up  this  old  Jacobite  ditty  for  the  Mu- 

There  I  met  my  shepherd  lad. 

leum,  and  added  6<ime  of  the  bitterest  bits :  the  second 

He  row'd  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid, 

and  fourth  verses  are  virholly  his.] 

An'  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie. 

CHORUS. 

II. 

Awa  Whigs,  awa ! 

Will  ye  gang  down  the  water-side. 

Awa  Whigs,  awa ! 

And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glide. 

Ye're  but  a  pack  o'  traitor  louns, 

Beneath  the  hazels  spreading  wide  ? 

Ye'll  do  nae  good  at  a'. 

The  moon  it  shines  fu'  clearly. 

I. 

Our  thrissles  flourish'd  fresh  and  fair. 

III. 
I  was  bred  up  at  nae  sic  school, 

And  bonnie  bloom'd  our  roses  ; 

My  shepherd  lad,  to  play  the  fool. 

But  Whigs  came  like  a  frost  in  June, 

And  a'  the  day  to  sit  in  dool. 

And  wither'd  a'  our  posies. 

And  naebody  to  see  me. 

II. 
Our  ancient  crown's  fa'n  in  the  dust — 

IV. 

Ye  sail  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet. 

Deil  blin'  them  wi'  the  stoure  o't ; 

Cauf-leather  shoon  upon  your  feet, 

And  write  their  names  in  his  black  beuk, 

And  in  ray  arms  ye'se  lie  and  sleep, 

Wha  gae  the  Whigs  the  power  o't. 

And  ye  sail  be  my  dearie. 

III. 
Our  sad  decay  in  Church  and  State 

V. 

If  ye'll  but  stand  to  what  ye've  said. 

Surpasses  my  descriving : 

I'se  gang  wi'  you,  my  shepherd  lad, 

The  Whigs  came  o'er  us  for  a  curse, 

And  ye  may  rowe  me  in  your  plaid. 

And  we  hae  done  wi'  thriving. 

And  I  shall  be  your  dearie. 

IV* 

VI. 

Grim  vengeance  lang  ha's  taen  a  nap, 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea ; 

But  we  may  see  him  wauken ; 

While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie ; 

Gude  help  the  day  when  royal  heads 

'Till  clay-cauld  death  sail  blin'  my  e'e, 

Are  hunted  like  a  maukin. 

Ye  sail  be  my  dearie. 

Awa  Whigs,  awa ! 

Ca'  the  ewes  to  the  knowes. 

Awa  Whigs,  awa! 

Ca'  them  whare  the  heather  grows^ 

Ye're  but  a  pack  o'  traitor  louns. 

Ca'  them  whare  the  burnie  rowes. 

Ye'll  do  nae  gude  at  a'. 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


205 


LXXXIII. 

MERRY  HAE  I  BEEN  TEETHIN'  A  HECKLE. 

Tune — "  Lord  Breadalhone^ s  March.'' 

[Part  of  this  song  is  old :  Sir  Harris  Nicolas  says  it 
iloes  not  appear  to  be  in  the  Museum:  let  him  look 
again.] 

I. 

0  MERRY  hae  I  been  teethin'  a  heckle, 

And  merry  hae  I  been  shapin'  a  spoon ; 
0  merry  hae  I  been  cloutin  a  kettle, 

And  kissin'  my  Katie  when  a'  was  done. 
0  a'  the  lang  day  I  ca'  at  my  hammer. 

An'  a'  the  lang  day  I  whistle  and  sing, 
A'  the  lang  night  I  cuddle  my  kiramer. 

An'  a'  the  lang  night  as  happy's  a  king. 


Bitter  in  dool  I  lickit  my  winnins, 

0'  marrying  Bess  to  gie  her  a  slave: 
Blest  be  the  hour  she  cool'd  in  her  linens. 

And  blythe  be  the  bird  that  sings  on  her  grave. 
Come  to  my  arms,  my  Katie,  my  Katie, 

An'  come  to  my  arms  and  kiss  me  again ! 
Drunken  or  sober,  here's  to  thee,  Katie  ! 

And  blest  be  the  day  I  did  it  again. 


LXXXIV. 

THE    BRAES    0'   BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune — "  The  Braes  o'  Ballochmyle." 

[Mary  Whitefoord,  eldest  daughter  of  Sir  John  White- 
foord,  was  the  heroine  of  this  song  :  it  was  written  when 
t  lat  ancient  family  left  their  ancient  inheritance.  It  is  in 
lie  Museum,  with  an  air  by  Allan  Masterton.] 

I. 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 

The  flowers  decay'd  on  Catrine  lea, 
Nae  lav'rock  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  nature  sicken'd  on  the  e'e. 
Thro'  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 

Hersel'  in  beauty's  bloom  the  while, 
And  ay  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang, 

Fareweel  the  Braes  o'  Ballochmyle  I 

II. 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds,  ye  flowers. 
Again  ye'U  flourish  fresh  and  fair ; 

Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  with'ring  bowers, 
Again  ye'll  charm  the  vocal  air. 


But  here,  alas !  for  me  nae  mair 

Shall  birdie  charm,  or  floweret  smile  ; 

Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 
Fareweel,  fareweel!  sweet  Ballochmyle ( 


LXXXV. 

TO  MARY  IN   HEAVEN. 

Tune  — "i)eafA  of  Captain  Cook." 

[This  sublime  and  affecting  Ode  was  composed  by 
iJurns  in  one  of  his  fits  of  melancholy,  on  the  anniversary 
of  Highland  Mary's  death.  All  the  day  he  had  been 
thoughtful,  and  at  evening  he  went  out,  threw  himself 
down  by  the  side  of  one  of  his  corn-ricks,  and  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  "a  bright,  particular  star,"  was  found  by 
his  wife,  who  with  difficulty  brought  him  in  from  the 
chill  midnight  air.  The  song  was  already  composed,  and 
he  had  only  to  commit  it  to  paper.  It  first  appeared  in 
the  Museum.] 


Thou  ling'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  usherest  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
0  Mary !  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast ' 


That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow'd  grove. 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love ! 
Eternity  cannot  efi*ace 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ; 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 


Ayr,  gurgling,  kiss'd  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thick'ning  green 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn,  hoar, 

Twin'd  am'rous  round  the  raptur'd  scene ; 
The  flow'rs  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray — 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 


Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  1 


240 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Time  but  th'  impression  stronger  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 
Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Ilear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 


LXXXVI. 
EPPIE    ADAIR. 

Tune—"  My  Fppie." 

["  Thia  song,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  "  which  has 
been  ascribed  to  Burns  by  some  of  his  editors,  is  in  tJie 
Musical  Museum  without  any  name."  It  is  partly  an 
old  strain, corrected  by  Burns  :  he  communicated  it  to  the 
Museum.] 

I. 
An'  0  !  my  Eppie, 
My  jewel,  my  Eppie  I 
Wha  wadna  be  happy 

Wi'  Eppie  Adair? 
By  love,  and  by  beauty, 
By  law,  and  by  duty, 
I  swear  to  be  true  to 

My  Eppie  Adair  I 


An'  0  !  my  Eppie, 
My  jewel,  my  Eppie  ! 
Wha  wadna  be  happy 

Wi'  Eppie  Adair  ? 
A'  pleasure  exile  me. 
Dishonour  defile  me. 
If  e'er  I  beguile  thee, 

My  Eppie  Adair  I 


Lxxxvn. 

THE  BATTLE   OF  S  HERIFF-MUIR. 
Tune — *'  Cameronicm  Rant." 

[One  Barclay,  a  dissenting  clergyman  in  Edinburgh, 
, wrote  a  rhyming  dialogue  between  two  rustics,  on  the 
battle  of  Sheriff-inuir  :  Burns  was  in  nowise  pleased  with 
the  way  in  which  the  reverend  rhymer  handled  the 
Highland  clans,  and  wrote  this  modified  and  improved 
version.] 


"  0  CAM  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun. 
Or  herd  the  sheep  wi'  me,  man  ? 

Or  were  ye  at  the  Sherra-muir, 
And  did  the  battle  see,  man  ?" 


I  saw  the  battle,  sair  and  tough, 
And  reekin'  red  ran  mony  a  shengh. 
My  heart,  for  fear,  gaed  sough  for  sough, 
To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  cluds, 
0'  clans  frae  woods,  in  tartan  duds, 
Wha  glaum'd  at  kingdoms  three,  man. 


The  red-coat  lads,  wi'  black  cockades, 

To  meet  them  were  na  slaw,  man ; 
They  rush'd  and  push'd,  and  blude  outgush'd. 

And  mony  a  bouk  did  fa',  man : 
The  great  Argyll  led  on  his  files, 
I  wat  they  glanc'd  for  twenty  miles : 
They  hough'd  the  clans  like  nine-pin  kyles. 
They  hack'd   and  hash'd,  while   broad-sworda 

clash'd, 
And  thro'  they  dash'd,  and  hew'd,  and  smash'd, 
'Till  fey  men  died  awa,  man. 

III. 

But  had  you  seen  the  philibegs, 

And  skyrin  tartan  trews,  man  ; , 
When  in  the  teeth  they  dar'd  our  Whigs 

And  covpnaut  true  blues,  man ; 
In  lines  exten:^ed  lang  and  large, 
When  bayonets  o^^posed  the  targe. 
And  thousands  hasicn'd  to  the  charge, 
Wi'  Highland  wrath  they  frae  the  sheath. 
Drew  blades  o'  death,  'till,  out  o'  breath, 

They  fled  like  frighted  doos,  man. 

IV. 

*'  0  how  deil,  Tam,  can  that  be  true  ? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  north,  man ; 
I  saw  myself,  they  did  pursue 

The  horsemen  back  to  Forth,  man ; 
And  at  Dumblane,  in  my  ain  sight. 
They  took  the  brig  wi'  a'  their  might, 
And  straught  to  Stirling  winged  their  flight; 
But,  cursed  lot !  the  gates  were  shut ; 
And  mony  a  huntit,  poor  red-coat. 

For  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man  I" 

V. 

My  sister  Kate  cam  up  the  gate 

Wi'  crowdie  unto  me,  man  ; 
She  swore  she  saw  some  rebels  run 

Frae  Perth  unto  Dundee,  man : 
Their  left-hand  general  had  nae  skill, 
The  Angus  lads  had  nae  good-will 
That  day  their  neebors'  blood  to  spill ; 
For  fear,  by  foes,  that  they  should  lose 
Their  cogs  o'  brose — they  scar'd  at  blows. 

And  so  it  goes,  you  see,  man. 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


241 


They've  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen, 
Amang  the  Highland  clans,  man  1 

I  fear  my  Lord  Panmure  is  slain, 
Or  fallen  in  Whiggish  hands,  man  : 

Now  wad  ye  sing  this  double  fight. 

Some  fell  for  wrang,  and  some  for  right ; 

And  mony  bade  the  world  guid-night ; 

Then  ye  may  tell,  how  pell  and  mell, 

By  red  claymores,  and  muskets'  knell, 

Wi'  dying  yell,  the  Tories  fell. 
And  Whigs  to  hell  did  flee,  man. 


LXXXVIII. 

YOUNG  JOCKEY. 
Tune — "  Young  Jockey. ^^ 

fWith  the  exception  of  three  or  four  lines,  this  song, 
though  marked  in  the  Museum  as  an  old  song  with 
additions,  is  the  work  of  Burns.  He  often  seems  to  have 
■at  down  to  amend  or  modify  old  verses,  and  found  it 
easier  to  make  verses  wholly  new.] 

I. 

Young  Jockey  was  the  blythest  lad 

In  a'  our  town  or  here  awa : 
Fu'  blythe  he  whistled  at  the  gaud, 

Fu'  lightly  danced  he  in  the  ha'. 
He  roosed  my  een,  sae  bonnie  blue. 

He  roosM  my  waist  sae  genty  sma*, 
And  ay  my  heart  came  to  my  mou' 

"When  ne'er  a  body  heard  or  saw. 


My  Jockey  toils  upon  the  plain, 

Thro'  wind  and  weet,  thro'  frost  and  snaif ; 
And  o'er  the  lea  I  leuk  fu'  fain. 

When  Jockey's  owsen  hameward  ca'. 
An'  ay  the  night  comes  round  again, 

When  in  his  arms  he  takes  me  a', 
An'  ay  he  vows  he'll  be  my  ain. 

As  lang's  he  has  a  breath  to  draw. 


LXXXIX. 
0   WILLIE   BREW'D. 

Tune — ''Willie  brevo'dapeck  o'  maut." 

[The  scene  of  this  song  is  Laggan,  in  Nithsdale,  a 

small  estate  which  Nicol  bought  by  the  advice  of  the 

poet.    It  was  composed  in  memory  of  the  house-heating. 

"We  hud  such  a  joyous  meeting,"  says  Bums,  '<that 

16 


Masterton  and  I  agreed,  each  in  our  own  way,  to  cele- 
brate the  business."  The  Willie  who  made  the  browst 
was,  therefore,  William  Nicol ;  the  Allan  who  composed 
the  air,  Allan  Masterton  ;  and  he  who  wrote  this  choicest 
of  conavivial  songs,  Robert  Burns.] 

I. 

0,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut, 

And  Rob  and  Allan  came  to  see : 
Three  blither  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

We  are  na  fou,  we're  no  that  fou, 
But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e ; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  diw, 
And  aye  we'll  taste  the  barley  bree. 


Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 
Three  merry  boys,  I  trow,  are  we ; 

And  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been. 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be  I 


It  is  the  moon — I  ken  her  horn, 
That's  blinkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie ; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame, 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she'll  wait  a  wee  ! 


Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa', 

A  cuckold,  coward  loon  is  he ! 

Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa'. 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three ! 

We  are  na  fou,  we're  no  that  fou. 
But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e  ; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw^ 
And  aye  we'll  taste  the  barley  bree. 


XO. 

WHARE   HAE  YE  BEEN. 

Tune — Killiecrankie." 

["  This  song,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  "  is  in  tht 
Museum  without  Burns's  name."  It  ^va8  composed  by 
Burns  on  the  buttle  of  Killiecrankie,  and  sent  in  his  owa 
handwriting  to  Jonnson:  he  puts  it  into  the  mouth  of  « 
Whig.] 


Wharb  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad  ? 

Whare  hae  ye  been  sae  brankie,  0? 
0,  whare  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad  T 

Cam  ye  by  Killiecrankie,  0  ? 


242 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


An'  ye  had  been  whare  I  hae  been, 
Ye  wad  na  been  so  cantie,  0  ; 

An*  ye  had  seen  what  I  hae  seen, 
On  the  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,  0. 


I  fought  at  land,  I  fought  at  sea; 

At  hame  I  fought  my  auntie,  0  ; 
But  I  met  the  Devil  an'  Dundee, 

On  the  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,  0. 
The  bauld  Pitcur  fell  in  a  furr. 

An'  Clavers  got  a  clankie,  0 ; 
Or  I  had  fed  on  Athole  gled, 

On  the  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,  0. 


XCI. 

I  GAED  A  WAEFU'  GATE  YESTREEN. 
Air — "  The  blue-eyed  lass." 

[This  blue-eyed  lass  was  Jean  Jeffery,  daughter  to  the 
minister  of  Lochmaben :  she  was  then  a  rosy  girl  of 
•eventeen,  with  winning  manners  and  laughing  blue  eyes. 
She  is  now  Mrs.  Renwick,  and  lives  in  New  York.] 

I. 

I  QAED  a  waefu'  gate  yestreen, 

A  gate,  I  fear,  I'll  dearlie  rue ; 
I  gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o'  bonnie  blue. 
*Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright ; 

Her  lips,  like  roses,  wat  wi'  dew, 
:Her  heaving  bosom,  lily-white — 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 


She  talk'd,  she  smil'd,  my  heart  she  wyl'd ; 

She  charm'd  my  soul — I  wist  na  how : 
And  ay  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound, 

Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 
But  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed ; 

She'll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow  : 
Should  she  refuse,  I'll  lay  my  dead 

To  her  twa  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 


XCII. 

THE    BANKS    OF    NITH. 

Tune — '^  Robie  donna  Gorach." 

(The  command  which  the  Comyns  held  on  the  Nith 
IkrsB  lost  to  the  Douglasses :  the  Nithsdale  power,  on  the 
downfall  of  that  proud  name,  was  divided  j  part  went  to 


the  Charteris's  and  the  better  portion  to  the  Maxwells : 
the  Johnstones  afterwards  came  in  for  a  share,  and  now 
the  Scotts  prevail.] 

I. 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea, 

Where  royal  cities  stately  stand ; 
But  sweeter  flows  the  Nith,  to  me, 

Where  Comyns  ance  had  high  commaD.1' 
When  shall  I  see  that  honour'd  land, 

That  winding  stream  I  love  so  dear ! 
Must  wayward  Fortune's  adverse  hand 

For  ever,  ever  keep  me  here  ? 


How  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales, 

Where  spreading  hawthorns  gaily  bloom  I 
How  sweetly  wind  thy  sloping  dales, 

Where  lambkins  wanton  thro'  the  broom' 
Tho'  wandering,  now,  must  be  my  doom, 

Far  from  thy  bonnie  banks  and  braes. 
May  there  my  latest  hours  consume, 

Amang  the  friends  of  early  days ! 


XCIII. 

MY  HEART  IS  A-BREAKING,  DEAR  TITTIE. 

Tune—"  Tarn  Glen." 

[Tam  Glen  is  the  title  of  an  old  Scottish  song,  and  oldel 
air:  of  the  former  all  that  remains  is  a  portion  of  the 
chorus.    Burns  when  he  wrote  it  sent  it  to  the  Museum.] 

I. 
My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  Tittie ! 

Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len', 
To  anger  them  a'  is  a  pity, 

But  what  will  I  do  wi'  Tam  Glen? 


I'm  thinking  wi'  sic  a  braw  fellow. 
In  poortith  I  might  make  a  fen' ; 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow. 
If  I  maunna  marry  Tam  Glen  ! 


There's  Lowrie  the  laird  o'  Dumeller, 

"Gude  day  to  you,  brute!"  he  comes  ben: 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o'  his  siller. 
But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen  ? 


My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me, 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me. 
But  wha  can  think  so  o'  Tam  Glen? 


OF   K0J3EKT   BURNS.                                        243 

V. 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I'll  forsake  him, 

xcv. 

He'll  gie  me  guid  liunder  marks  ten: 

SWEET   CLOSES   THE  EVENING. 

But,  if  it's  ordain'd  I  maun  take  him, 

Tune — "  Craigie-bum-wood.'* 

0  wha  will  I  get  but  Tarn  Glen? 

[This  is  one  of  several  fine  songs  in  honour  of  Jeat 

VI. 

Lorimer,  of  Kemmis-hall,   Kirkmahoe,  who  for  some 

Yestreen  at  the  Valentine's  dealing, 

time  Jived  on  tlie  tanks  of  Craigie-burn,  near  Moffat.    It 

was  composed  in  aid  of  the  eloquence  of  a  Mr.  G:.Jespie, 

My  heart  to  my  mou'  gied  a  sten  ; 

who  was  in  love  with  her :  but  it  did  not  prevail,  fct 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 

she  married  an  officer  of  the  name  of  Whelpdale,  livei 

And  thrice  it  was  written— Tarn  Glen. 

with  him  for  a  month  or  so :  reasons  arose  on  both  sideg 

which  rendered  separation  necessary;  she  then  took  up 

VII. 

her  residence  in  Dumfries,  where  she  had  many  oppor 

The  last  Halloween  I  was  waukin 

tunities  of  seeing  the  poet.     She  lived  till  lately.] 

My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken ; 

CHORUS. 

His  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin, 

Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  thee,  dearie, 

And  the  very  grey  breeks  o'  Tarn  Glen ! 

And  0,  to  be  lying  beyond  thee  ; 

0  sweetly,  soundly,  weel  may  he  sleep 

VIII. 

That's  laid  in  the  bed  beyond  thee  I 

Come  counsel,  dear  Tittie !  don't  tarry — 

I'll  gie  you  my  bonnie  black  hen, 

I. 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 

The  lad  that  I  lo'e  dearly,  Tam  Glen. 

Sweet  closes  the  evening  on  Craigie-burn-wood, 
And  blithely  awaukens  the  morrow; 

But  the  pride  of  the  spring  in  the  Craigie-buin 

wood 
Can  yield  to  me  nothing  but  sorrow. 

XCIV. 

II. 

FRAE  THE   FRIENDS  AND  LAND  I  LOVE. 

I  see  the  spreading  leaves  and  flowers^ 

Air—*'  Carron  Side.'' 

I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing  ; 

But  pleasure  they  hae  nane  for  me. 

[Burns  says,  "  I  added  the  four  last  lines,  by  way  of 

While  care  my  heart  is  wringing. 

fiving  a  turn  to  the  theme  of  the  poem,  such  as  it  is." 

The  rest  of  the  song  is  supposed  to  be  from  the  same 

III. 

na  nd :  the  lines  are  not  to  be  found  in  earlier  collections.] 

I  canna  tell,  I  maunna  tell, 

I. 

I  darena  for  your  anger ; 

Frae  the  friends  and  land  I  love, 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 

Driv'n  by  fortune's  felly  spite, 

If  I  conceal  it  langer. 

Frae  my  best  belov'd  I  rove. 

Never  mair  to  taste  delight ; 

IV. 

Never  mair  maun  hope  to  find. 

I  see  thee  gracefu',  straight,  and  tall, 

Ease  frae  toil,  relief  frae  care : 

I  see  thee  sweet  and  bonnie  ; 

When  remembrance  wracks  the  mind, 

But  oh  !  what  will  my  torments  be, 

Pleasures  but  unveil  despair. 

If  thou  refuse  thy  Johnnie  I 

II. 
Brightest  climes  shall  mirk  appear. 

V. 

To  see  thee  in  anither's  arms. 

Desert  ilka  blooming  shore, 

In  love  to  lie  and  languish. 

Till  the  Fates,  nae  mair  severe. 

'Twad  be  my  dead,  that  will  be  seen. 

Friendship,  love,  and  peace  restore  ; 

My  heart  wad  burst  wi'  anguish. 

Till  Revenge,  wi'  laurell'd  head. 

Bring  our  banish'd  hame  again ; 

VI. 

And  ilka  loyal  bonnie  lad 

But,  Jeanie,  say  thou  wilt  be  mine, 

Cross  the  seas  and  win  his  ain. 

Say  thou  lo'es  nane  before  me  ; 

'    244                                    THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

And  a'  my  days  o'  life  to  come 

It's  a'  for  the  apple  he'll  nourish  the  tree ; 

I'll  gratefully  adore  thee. 

It's  a'  for  the  hiney  he'll  cherish  the  bee ; 

Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  thee,  dearie, 

My  laddie's  sae  meikle  in  luve  wi'  the  siller, 

And  0,  to  be  lying  beyond  thee  ; 

He  canna  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

0  sweetly,  soundly,  weel  may  he  sleep 

That's  laid  in  the  bed  beyond  thee  ! 

II. 

Your  proffer  o'  luve's  an  airl-penny, 

My  tocher's  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy ; 

XCVI. 

But  an  ye  be  crafty,  I  am  cunnin', 

Sae  ye  wi*  anither  your  fortune  maun  try. 

COCK  UP  YOUR  BEAVER. 

Ye're  like  to  the  timmer  o'  yon  rotten  wood, 

Tune — "  Cock  up  your  beaver." 

Ye're  like  to  the  timmer  o'  yon  rotten  tree , 

Ye'll  slip  frae  me  like  a  knotless  thread, 

['« Printed,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  "  in  the  Musical 

And  ye'll  crack  your  credit  wi'  mae  nor  me 

Museum,  but  not  with  Burns's  name."    It  is  an  old  song, 

eked  out  and  amended  by  the  poet :  all  the  last  verse. 

save  the  last  line,  is  his;  several  of  the  lines  too  of  the 
first  verse,  have  felt  his  amending  hand ;  he  communi- 

rated  it  to  the  Museum.] 

I. 

xcvm. 

When  first  my  brave  Johnnie  lad 

GANE   IS   THE  DAY. 

Came  to  this  town, 
He  had  a  blue  bonnet 

Tune — "  Gudewife  count  the  launn.** 

That  wanted  the  crown ; 

[The  air  as  well  as  words  of  this  song  were  furnished 

But  now  he  has  gotten 

to  the  Museum  by  Burns.    "  The  chorus,"  he  says,  "  it 

A  hat  and  a  feather, — 

part  ofan  old  song."] 

Hey,  brave  Johnnie  lad, 

I. 

Cock  up  your  beaver  I 

Ganb  is  the  day,  and  mirk's  the  night, 

But  we'll  ne'er  stray  for  fau't  o'  light, 

II. 

For  ale  and  brandy's  stars  and  moon, 

Cock  up  your  beaver. 

And  blude-red  wine's  the  rising  sun. 

And  cock  it  fu'  sprush, 

Then  gudewife  count  the  lawin. 

We'll  over  the  border 

The  lawin,  the  lawin  ; 

And  gie  them  a  brush ; 

Then  gudewife  count  the  lawin. 

There's  somebody  there 

And  bring  a  coggie  mair ! 

We'll  teach  better  behaviour — 

Hey,  brave  Johnnie  lad. 

II. 

Cock  up  your  beaver ! 

There's  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen, 

And  simple  folk  maun  fight  and  fen ; 

* 

But  here  we're  a'  in  ae  accord. 
For  ilka  man  Jhat's  drunk's  a  lord. 

xcvn. 

III. 

MEIKLE    THINKS    MY    LUVE. 

My  coggie  is  a  haly  pool, 

Tune— "i/y  tocher's  the  jewel." 

That  heals  the  wounds  o'  care  and  dool ; 

[Thes»  verses  were  written  by  Burns  for  the  Museum, 

And  pleasure  is  a  wanton  trout. 

to  an  air  by  Oswald  :  but  he  wished  them  to  be  sung  to 

An'  ye  drink  but  deep  ye'll  find  him  out 

a  tune  called  "  Lord  Elcho's  favourite,"  of  which  he 

Then  gudewife  count  the  lawin  ; 

was  an  admirer.] 

The  lawin,  the  lawin. 

I. 

Then  gudewife  count  the  lawin, 

0  MEIKLE  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  beauty, 

And  bring  a  coggie  mair  ! 

And  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  kin ; 
But  little  thinks  my  luve  I  ken  brawlie 

My  tocher's  the  jewel  has  charms  for  him. 

OF   liOBERT   BUllxXS. 


245 


XCIX. 
THERE'LL  NEVER   BE   PEACE. 

Tune — ^^  There  are  few  gude  fellows  when  Willie^ s 
awa." 

iThe  bard  was  in  one  of  his  Jacobitical  moods  when 
ho  wrote  this  song.  The  air  is  a  well  known  one,  called 
«<  There's  few  gude  fellows  when  Willie's  awa."  But 
of  the  old  words  none,  it  is  supposed,  are  preserved.] 


By  yon  castle  wa',  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

I  heard  a  man  sing,  though  his  head  it  was 

gray; 
And  as  he  was  singing  the  tears  down  came, 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 
The  church  is  in  ruins,  the  state  is  in  jars  ; 
Delusions,  oppressions,  and  murderous  wars ; 
We  darena  weel  say't,  though  we  ken  wha's  to 

blame. 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame ! 


My  seven  braw  sons  for  Jamie  drew  sword. 
And  now  I  greet  round  their  green  beds  in  the 

yerd. 
It  brak  the  sweet  heart  of  my  faithfu'  auld 

dame — 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 
Now  life  is  a  burthen  that  bows  me  down, 
Since  I  tint  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  his  crown ; 
But  till  my  last  moments  my  words  are  the 

same — 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame ! 


HOW  CAN  I  BE  BLYTHE  AND  GLAD? 
Tune — ^^The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa.'* 

[Tliis  lamentation  was  written,  it  is  said,  in  allusion 
to  the  sufferings  of  Jean  Armour,  when  her  correspond- 
•ace  with  Burns  was  discovered  by  her  family.] 

I. 
0  HOW  can  I  be  blythe  and  glad. 

Or  how  can  I  gang  brisk  and  braw, 
When  the  bonnie  lad  that  I  lo'e  best 

Is  o'er  the  hills  and  far  awa  ? 
When  the  bonnie  lad  that  I  lo'e  best 

Is  o'er  the  hills  and  far  awa. 


It's  no  the  frosty  winter  wind, 
It's  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw ; 


But  ay  the  tear  comes  in  my  e'e. 
To  think  on  him  that's  far  awa. 

But  ay  the  tear  comes  in  my  e'e. 
To  think  on  him  that's  far  awa. 


My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door. 

My  friends  they  hae  disown'd  me  a*, 

But  I  hae  ane  will  tak*  my  part. 
The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

But  I  hae  ane  will  tak'  my  part. 
The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa. 


A  pair  o'  gloves  he  gae  to  me, 

And  silken  snoods  he  gae  me  twa ; 

And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake. 
The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 
The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa 


0  weary  Winter  soon  will  pass. 

And  spring  will  deed  the  birken  shaw ; 

And  my  young  babie  will  be  born, 
And  he'll  be  hame  that's  far  awa. 

And  my  young  babie  will  be  bom, 
And  he'll  be  hame  that's  far  awa. 


CI. 

I  DO  CONFESS  THOU  ART  SAE  FAIR. 

Tune — '^I  do  confess  thou  art  saefair" 

["  I  do  think,"  says  Burns,  in  allusion  to  this  song, 
"  that  I  have  improved  the  simplicity  of  the  sentiment! 
by  giving  them  a  Scottish  dress."  The  original  song  ii 
of  great  elegance  and  beauty :  it  was  written  by  Sir 
Robert  Aytoun,  secretary  to  Anne  of  Deoicark,  (^ueeo 
of  James  I.] 

I. 

I  DO  confess  thou  art  sae  fair, 

I  wad  been  o'er  the  lugs  in  love, 
Had  I  na  found  the  slightest  prayer 

That  lips  could  speak  thy  heart  could  muva 
I  do  confess  thee  sweet,  but  find 

Thou  art  sae  thriftless  o'  thy  sweets. 
Thy  favours  are  the  silly  wind, 

That  kisses  ilka  thing  it  meets. 


See  yonder  rose-bud,  rich  in  dew, 
Amang  its  native  briers  sae  coy ; 


24G 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


How  sune  it  tines  its  scent  and  hue 
When  pou'd  and  worn  a  common  toy ! 

Sic  fate,  ere  lang,  shall  thee  betide, 
Tho'  thou  may  gaily  bloom  awhile ; 

Yet  sune  thou  shalt  be  thrown  aside 
Like  ony  common  weed  and  \ile. 


cn. 

TON   WILD    MOSSY   MOUNTAINS. 
Tune — "  Yon  wild  mossy  mountains.** 

["  This  song  alludes  to  a  part  of  my  private  histoiy, 
which  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  the  world  to  know." 
These  are  the  words  of  Burns:  he  sent  the  song  to  the 
Musical  Museum;  the  heroine  is  supposed  to  be  the 
"Nannie,"  who  dwelt  near  the  Lugar.] 

I. 

Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide, 
That  nurse  in  their  bosom  the  youth  o'   the 

Clyde, 
Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro'  the 

heather  to  feed, 
And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes  on 
his  reed. 
Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro'  the 

heather  to  feed, 
And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes 
on  his  reed. 


Not  Gowrie's  rich  valleys,  nor  Forth's  sunny 

shores. 
To  me  hae   the   charms  o'   yon  wild,  mossy 

moors ; 
For  there,  by  a  lanely  and  sequester'd  stream, 
Resides   a  sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and  my 
dream. 
For  there,  by  a  lanely  and  sequester'd  stream. 
Resides  a  sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and  my 
dream. 


Amang  thae  wild  mountains  shall  still  be  my 

path, 
Ilk  stream  foaming  down  its  ain  green,  narrow 

strath  ; 
For  there,  wi'  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I  rove, 
While  o'er  us  unheeded  flee  the  swift  hours  o' 

love. 
For  there  wi'  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I  rove, 
While  o'er  us  unheeded  flee  the  swift  hotirs  o* 

love. 


She  is  not  the  fairest,  altho'  she  is  fair ; 
0'  nice  education  but  sma'  is  her  share ; 
Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be ; 
But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie  because  she  lo'es  me 

Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be ; 

But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie  because  she  lo'ef 


To  beauty  what  man  but  maun  yield  him  a 

prize. 
In  her  armour  of  glances,   and  blushes,  and 

sighs  ? 
And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polish'd  her 

darts. 
They  dazzle  our  een  as  they  flee  to  our  hearts. 
And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polish'd 

her  darts. 
They  dazzle   our  een,   as  they  flee  to  our 
hearts. 

VI. 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the  fond  spark- 
ling e'e, 
Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me : 
And  the  heart  beating  love  as  I'm  clasp'd  in 

her  arms, 
0,  these  are  my  lassie's  all-conquering  charms! 
And  the  heart  beating  love  as  I'm  clasp'd  in 

her  arms, 
0,    these     are    my   lassie's    all-conquering 
charms ! 


cni. 


IT  IS  NA,  JEAN,  THY  BONNIE  FACE. 

Tune—**  The  Maid's  Complaint:* 

[Bums  found  this  song  in  English  attire,  bestowed  a 
Scottish  dress  upon  it,  and  published  it  in  the  Museum, 
together  with  the  air  by  Oswald,  which  i8  one  of  hk 
best.] 


It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonnie  face. 

Nor  shape  that  I  admire, 
Altho'  thy  beauty  and  thy  grace 

Might  weel  awake  desire. 
Something  in  ilka  part  o'  thee, 

To  praise,  to  love,  I  find ; 
But  dear  as  is  thy  form  to  me, 

Still  dearer  is  thy  mind. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS.                                       24T 

II- 

III. 

Nae  mair  ungen'rous  wish  I  hae, 

Lanely  nights  come  on, 

Nor  stronger  in  my  breast, 

A'  the  house  are  sleeping, 

Than,  if  I  canna  mak  thee  sae, 

I  think  on  my  bonnie  lad. 

At  least  to  see  thee  blest. 

An'  I  blear  my  een  wi'  groetin' ' 

Content  am  I,  if  heaven  shall  give 

Ay  waukin,  &c. 

But  happiness  to  thee : 

And  as  wi'  thee  I'd  wish  to  live, 
For  thee  I'd  bear  to  die. 

CVI. 
I  MURDER  HATE. 

CIV. 

"These  verses  are  to  be  found  in  a  volume  which  may 

be  alluded  to  without  being  named,  in  which  many  of 

WHEN  I  THINK  ON  THE  HAPPY  DAYS. 

Burns's  strains,  some  looser  than  these,  are  to  be  found.] 

[These  verses  were  in  latter  years  expanded  by  Burns 

I. 

into  a  song,  for  the  collection  of  Thomson :  the  song  will 

I  MURDER  hate  by  field  or  flood, 

be  found  in  its  place  :  the  variations  are  worthy  of  pre- 

■arvation.] 

Tho'  glory's  name  may  screen  us : 

In  wars  at  hame  I'll  spend  my  blood. 

I. 

Life-giving  wars  of  Venus. 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 

I  spent  wi'  you,  my  dearie ; 

II. 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie, 

The  deities  that  I  adore 

How  can  I  be  but  eerie ! 

Are  social  Peace  and  Plenty, 

I'm  better  pleas'd  to  make  one  more, 

II. 

Than  be  the  death  of  twenty. 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours, 

As  ye  were  wae  and  weary ! 
It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by. 

When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

CVII. 

0  GUDE  ALE  COMES. 

CV. 

[These  verses  are  in  the  Museum :  the  first  two  « 

old,  the  eonclading  one  is  by  Bums.] 

WHAN  I  SLEEP   I  DREAM. 

I. 

[This  presents  another  version  of  song  LXV.    Varia- 

0 GUDE  ale  comes,  and  gude  ale  goes, 

tions  are  to  a  poet  what  changes  are  in  the  thoughts  of  a 

Gude  ale  gars  me  sell  my  hose, 

painter,  and  speak  of  fertility  of  sentiment  in  both.] 

Sell  my  hose,  and  pawn  my  shoon. 

I. 

Gude  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 

Whan  I  sleep  I  dream. 

Whan  I  wauk  I'm  eerie, 

II. 

Sleep  I  canna  get. 

I  had  sax  owsen  in  a  pleugh, 

For  thinkin'  o'  my  dearie. 

They  drew  a'  weel  eneugh, 

I  sell'd  them  a'  just  ane  by  ane  ; 

II. 

Gude  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 

Lanely  night  comes  on. 

A'  the  house  are  sleeping. 

III. 

I  think  on  the  bonnie  lad 

Gude  a.d  bauds  me  bare  and  busy, 

That  has  my  heart  a  keeping. 

Gars  me  moop  wi'  the  servant  hizzie. 

Ay  waukin  0,  waukin  ay  and  wearie. 

Stand  i'  the  stool  when  I  hae  done, 

Sleep  I  canna  get,  for  thinkin'   o'  my 

Gude  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 

dearie. 

0  gude  ale  comes,  &c. 

248 


THE   POETICAL   WOKKS 


CVIII. 

EOBIN   SHURE   IN   HAIRST. 

[This  is  an  old  chaunt,  out  of  which  Burns  brushed 
some  loose  expressions,  added  the  third  and  fourth 
verses,  and  sent  it  to  the  Museum.] 

I. 

Robin  shure  in  hairst, 

I  shure  wi'  him, 
Fient  a  heuk  had  I, 

Yet  I  stack  by  him. 

II. 
I  gaed  up  to  Dunse, 

To  warp  a  wab  o'  plaiden, 
At  his  daddie's  yett, 

Wha  met  me  but  Robin. 

I II. 

Was  na  Robin  bauld, 

Tho'  I  was  a  cotter, 
Play'd  me  sic  a  trick, 

And  me  the  eller's  dochter  ? 
Robin  shure  in  hairst,  &c. 

IV. 

Robin  promis'd  me 

A'  my  winter  vittle  ; 
Fient  haet  he  had  but  three 

Goose  feathers  and  a  whittle. 
Robin  shure  in  hairst,  &c. 


t!IX. 


BONNIE    PEG. 


[A  fDurth  verse  makes  the  moon  a  witness  to  the  en- 
iearments  of  these  lovers;  but  that  planet  sees  more  in- 
discreet matters  tljan  it  is  right  to  describe.] 


As  I  came  in  by  our  gate  end. 
As  day  was  waxin'  weary, 

0  wha  came  tripping  down  the  street, 
But  Bonnie  Peg  my  dearie  I 


Her  air  sae  sweet,  and  shape  complete, 
Wi'  nae  proportion  wanting  ; 

The  Queen  of  Love  did  never  move 
Wi'  motion  mair  enchanting. 


Wi'  linked  hands,  we  took  the  sands 

A-down  yon  winding  river ; 
And,  oh  !  that  hour  and  broomy  bower, 

Can  I  forg->t  it  ever  ? 


ex. 

GUDEEN  TO  YOU,   KIMMER. 

[This  song  in  otlier  days  was  a  controversial  one,  and 
contained  some  sarcastic  allusicms  to  Alotlier  Rome  and 
her  brood  of  seven  sacraments,  five  of  whom  were  ille- 
gitimate. Burns  ciianged  the  meaning,  and  published  hia 
altered  version  in  the  Museum.] 


GuDEEN  to  you,  Kimmer, 

And  how  do  ye  do  ? 
Hiccup,  quo'  Kimmer, 
The  better  that  I'm  fou. 
We're  a'  noddin,  nid  nid  noddin. 
We're  a'  noddin,  at  our  house  at  hame 

II. 

Kate  sits  i'  the  neuk, 

Suppin  hen  broo ; 
Deil  tak  Kate 

An'  she  be  na  noddin  too  I 
We're  a'  noddin,  &c. 


How's  a'  wi'  you,  Kimmer, 
And  how  do  ye  fare  ? 

A  pint  o'  the  best  o't. 
And  twa  pints  mair. 
We're  a'  noddin,  &c. 


How's  a'  wi'  you,  Kimmer, 
And  how  do  ye  thrive ; 

How  many  bairns  hae  ye  ? 
Quo'  Kimmer,  I  hae  five. 
We're  a'  noddin,  &c. 


Are  they  a'  Johnie's  ? 

Eh  !  atweel  no : 
Twa  o'  them  were  gotten 

When  Johnie  was  awa. 
We're  a  noddin,  &c. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        249 

VI. 

Cats  like  milk, 

II. 
What  says  she,  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ? 

And  dogs  like  broo  ; 

What  says  she,  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ? 

Lads  like  lasses  weel, 

She  lets  thee  to  wit,  that  she  has  thee  forgot. 

And  lasses  lads  too. 

And  for  ever  disowns  thee,  her  ain  Jock  Rab. 

We're  a'  noddin,  &c. 

0  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Eppie  M'Nab ! 

0  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  I 
As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou's  fair. 

Thou's  broken  the  heart  o'  thy  ain  Jock  Rab. 

CXI. 

AH,  OHLOmS,  SINCE  IT  MAY  NA  BE. 
Tune — *■'■  Major  Graham.'^ 

[Sir  Harris  Nicolas  found  these  lines  on  Chloris  amoi^ 

the  papers  of  Burns,  and  printed  them  in  his  late  edition 

CXIII. 

Df  the  poet's  works.] 

WHA  IS  THAT  AT  MY  BOWER-DOOR. 

I. 

Tune — **  Lass  an  I  come  near  thee" 

Ah,  Chloris,  since  it  may  na  be, 

That  thou  of  love  wilt  hear ; 

[The  «  Auld  man  and  the  Widow,"  in  Ramsay's  col- 

lection is  said,  by  Gilbert  Bums,  to  have  suggested  thia 

If  from  the  lover  thou  maun  flee. 

song  to  his  brother :  it  first  appeared  in  the  Museum.! 

Yet  let  the  friend  be  dear. 

I. 

II. 

Wha  is  that  at  my  bower-door  ? 

Altho'  I  love  my  Chloris  mair 

0,  wha  is  it  but  Findlay  ? 

Than  ever  tongue  could  tell  ; 

Then  gae  your  gate,  ye'se  nae  be  here  I — 

My  passion  I  will  ne'er  declare, 

Indeed,  maun  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

I'll  say,  I  wish  thee  well. 

What  mak  ye  sae  like  a  thief  ? 

0  come  and  see,  quo'  Findlay ; 

III. 

Before  the  morn  ye'U  work  mischief; 

Tho'  a'  my  daily  care  thou  art. 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

And  a'  my  nightly  dream. 

I'll  hide  the  struggle  in  my  heart, 

II. 

And  say  it  is  esteem. 

6if  I  rise  and  let  you  in  ? 

Let  me  in,  quo'  Findlay  ; 

Ye'll  keep  me  waukin  wi'  your  din ; 
Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

cxn. 

In  my  bower  if  you  should  stay? 

Let  me  stay,  quo'  Findlay ; 

0  SAW  YE   MY  DEARIE. 

I  fear  ye'll  bide  till  break  o'  day; 

Tune — "  Eppie  3Iacnab." 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

["  Published  in  the  Museum,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas, 

% 

"  wifaout  any  name."    Burns  corrected  some  lines  in  the 

III.              • 

old  song,  which  iiad  more  wit,  lie  said,  thnn  decency, 

Here  this  night  if  ye  remain ; — 

w.i  added  others,  and  sent  his  amended  version  to  John- 
■on.] 

I'll  remain,  quo'  Findlay ; 

I  dread  ye'll  learn  the  gate  again ; 

I. 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

0  SAW  ye  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ? 

What  may  pass  within  this  bower, — 

0  saw  ye  my  dearie,  my  Eppie  M'Nab  ? 

Let  it  pass,  quo'  Findlay ; 

She's  down  in  the  yard,  she's  kissin'  the  laird, 

Ye  maun  conceal  till  your  last  hour ; 

She  winna  come  hame  to  her  ain  Jock  Rab. 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay  I 

0  come  thy  ways  to  me,  my  Eppie  M'Nab ! 

0  come  thy  ways  to  me,  my  Eppie  M'Nab ! 
Whate'er  thou  hast  done,  be  it  late,  be  it  soon, 

Thou's  welcome  again  to  thy  ain  Jock  Rab. 

^ ,,1,^ 

250 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


CXIV. 

WHAT  CAN  A  YOUNG  LASSIE. 

Tune — *^What  can  a  young  lassie  do  wV  an  auld 
man." 

[In  the  old  strain,  which  partly  suggested  this  song,  the 
heroine  threatens  only  to  adorn  lier  husband's  brows: 
Burns  proposes  a  system  of  domestic  annoyance  to  break 
nis  heart.] 

I. 
What  can  a  young  lassie,  what  shall  a  young 
lassie, 
What  can  a  young  lassie  do  wi'  an  auld  man  ? 
Bad  luck  on  the  pennie  that  tempted  my  minnie 

To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  for  siller  an'  Ian' ! 

Bad  luck  on  the  pennie  that  tempted  my  minnie 

To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  for  siller  an'  Ian' ! 


He's  always  compleenin'  frae  mornin'  to  e'enin'. 
He  hosts  and  he  hirples  the  weary  day  lang ; 

He's  doyl't  and  he's  dozin',  his  bluid  it  is  frozen, 
0,  dreary's  the  night  wi'  a  crazy  auld  man ! 

He's  doyl't  and  he's  dozin',  his  bluid  it  is  frozen, 
0,  dreary's  the  night  wi'  a  crazy  auld  man ! 


He  htms  and  he  hankers,  he  frets   and  he 
cankers, 

I  never  can  please  him,  do  a'  that  I  can ; 
He's  peevish  and  jealous  of  a'  the  young  fellows : 

0,  dool  on  the  day  I  met  wi'  an  auld  man ! 
He's  peevish  and  jealous  of  a'  the  young  fellows: 

0,  dool  on  the  day  I  met  wi'  an  auld  man ! 


My  auld  auntie  Katie  upon  me  takes  pity, 
I'll  do  my  endeavour  to  follow  her  plan ; 
I'll  cross  hinj,  and  wrack  him,  until  I  heart- 
break him, 
And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a  new 
pan. 
I'll  cross  him,  and  wrack  him,  until  I  heart- 
break him, 
And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a  new 
pan. 


CXV. 

THE  BONNIE  WEE   THING. 

Tune — "  Bonnie  wee  thing." 

["Composed,"  says  the  poet,  "on  my  little  idol,  th« 
charming,  lovely  Davies."] 

I. 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing. 

Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 
Wishfully  I  look  and  languish 

In  that  bonnie  face  o'  thine ; 
And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi'  anguish, 

Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 


Wit,  and  gi*ace,  and  love,  and  beauty 

In  ae  constellation  shine ; 
To  adore  thee  is  my  duty. 

Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine ! 
Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing. 

Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom. 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine  I 


CXVI. 
THE    TIT  HER    MORN. 

To  a  Highland  Air. 

["  The  tune  of  this  song,"  says  Burns,  "  is  originally 
from  the  Highlands.  I  have  heard  a  Gaelic  song  to  it, 
which  was  not  by  any  means  a  lady's  scmg."  "  It  oc- 
curs," says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  "  in  the  Museum,  without 
the  name  of  Burns."  It  was  sent  in  the  poet's  own  hand< 
writing  to  Johnson,  and  is  believed  to  be  his  compoeition.] 


The  tither  mom. 

When  I  forlorn, 
Aneath  an  oak  sat  moaning, 

I  did  na  trow 

I'd  see  my  Jo, 
Beside  me,  gain  the  gloaming. 

But  he  sae  trig, 

Lap  o'er  the  rig. 
And  dawtingly  did  cheer  me. 

When  I,  what  reck. 

Did  least  expec', 
To  see  my  lad  so  near  me. 


OF   KOBEKT    BUKNS.                                         25i      ' 

11. 

Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly. 

His  bonnet  he, 

Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 

A  thought  ajee, 

Never  met — or  never  parted. 

Cock'd  sprush  when  first  he  clasp'dme; 

We  had  ne'er  been  broken  hearted. 

And  I,  I  wat, 

Wi'  fainness  grat, 

III. 

While  in  his  grips  he  press'd  me. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest  I 

Deil  tak'  the  war ! 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 

I  late  and  air 

Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure. 

Uae  wish'd  since  Jock  departed ; 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure! 

But  now  as  glad 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

I'm  wi'  my  lad, 

Ae  farewell,  alas !  for  ever  ! 

As  short  syne  broken-hearted. 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee. 

T  J 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee  I 

Fu'  aft  at  e'en 
Wi'  dancing  keen, 

When  a'  were  blythe  and  merry, 

I  car'd  na  by. 

CXVIII. 

Sae  sad  was  I 

LOVELY  DAVIES. 

In  absence  o'  my  dearie. 

Tune—"  Miss  Muir." 

But  praise  be  blest. 

My  mind's  at  rest. 

[Written  for  the  Museum,  in  honour  of  the  witty,  ta< 

I'm  happy  wi'  my  Johnny : 

handsome,  the  lovely,  and  unfortunate  Miss  Davies  i 

At  kirk  and  fair, 

I. 

I'se  ay  be  there. 

0  HOW  shall  I,  unskilfu',  try 

And  be  as  canty's  ony. 

The  poet's  occupation. 

The  tunefu'  powers,  in  happy  hours, 
That  whispers  inspiration  ? 

Even  they  maun  dare  an  effort  mair, 

cxvn. 

Than  aught  they  ever  gave  us. 

AE   FOND  KISS. 

Or  they  rehearse,  in  equal  verse, 

The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 

Tune—"  R9ry  Ball's  Port." 

Each  eye  it  cheers,  when  she  appears. 

(Believed  to  relate  to  the  poet's  parting  with  Clarinda. 

Like  Phoebus  in  the  morning. 

'<  Tlieee  exquisitely  affecting  stanzas,"  says  Scott,  "  con- 

When  past  the  shower,  and  ev'ry  flower 

lain  the  essence  of  u  thousand  love-tales."    They  are  in 
Uie  Museum.] 

The  garden  is  adorning. 
As  the  wretch  looks  o'er  Siberia's  shore, 

I. 

When  winter-bound  the  wave  is ; 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 

Sae  droops  our  heart  when  we  maun  part 

Ae  fareweel,  and  then  for  ever  I 

Frae  charming  lovely  Davies. 

Deep  in  he.irt-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 

II. 

Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him 

Her  smile's  a  gift,  frae  'boon  the  lift. 

While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 

That  maks  us  mair  than  princes ; 

Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me  ; 

A  scepter'd  hand,  a  king's  command. 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

Is  in  her  darting  glances : 

The  man  in  arms,  'gainst  female  charms, 

II. 

Even  he  her  willing  slave  is; 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 

He  hugs  his  chain,  and  owns  the  reign 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy ; 

Of  conquering,  lovely  Daviss. 

But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her ; 

My  muse  to  dream  of  such  a  theme, 

Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. — 

Her  feeble  pow'rs  surrender 

252 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


The  eagle's  gaze  alone  surveys 
The  sun's  meridian  splendour: 

I  wad  in  vain  essay  the  strain, 
The  deed  too  daring  brave  is ! 

I'll  drap  the  lyre,  and  mute  admire 
The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 


CXIX. 
THE   WEARY   PUND   0'    TOW. 

Tune—"  The  weary  Fund  o'  Tow:' 

["This  song,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  "  is  in  the 
Musical  Museum;  l)ut  it  is  not  attributed  to  Burns.  Mr. 
Allan  CunningliJim  does  not  state  upon  what  authority  he 
has  assigned  it  to  Burns."  The  critical  knight  might 
have,  if  he  had  pleased,  stated  similar  objections  to  many 
Bongs  wiiich  he  took  without  scruple  from  my  edition, 
wnere  they  were  claimed  for  Burns,  for  the  first  time, 
and  on  good  authority.  I,  however,  as  it  happens,  did 
not  claim  the  song  wholly  for  the  poet :  I  said  "  the 
idea  of  the  song  is  old,  and  perhaps  some  of  the  words." 
It  was  sent  by  Burns  to  the  Museum,  and  in  his  own  hand- 
writing.] 

I. 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund, 

The  weary  pund  o'  tow : 
I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 

Before  she  spin  her  tow. 
I  bought  my  wife  a  stane  o'  lint 

As  gude  as  e'er  did  grow ; 
And  a'  that  she  has  made  o'  that, 

Is  ae  poor  pund  o'  tow. 


There  sat  a  bottle  in  a  bole, 

Beyont  the  ingle  low, 
And  ay  she  took  the  tither  souk, 

To  drouk  the  stowrie  tow. 


Quoth  I,  for  shame,  ye  dirty  dame, 
Gae  spin  your  tap  o'  tow ! 

She  took  the  rock,  and  wi'  a  knock 
She  brak  it  o'er  my  pow. 


At  last  her  feet — I  sang  to  see't — 
Gaed  foremost  o'er  the  knowe  ; 
And  or  I  wad  anither  jad, 
I'll  wallop  in  a  tow. 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund. 

The  weary  pund  o'  tow ! 
I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 
Before  she  spin  her  tow. 


cxx. 

NAEBODY. 

Naebody. 


Tune 


[Burns  had  built  his  house  at  Ellisland,  sowed  his  first 
crop,  the  woman  he  loved  was  at  his  side,  and  hope  wa« 
high ;  no  wonder  that  he  indulged  in  this  independent 
strain.] 


I  HAE  a  wife  o'  my  ain — 

I'll  partake  wi'  naebody ; 
I'll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane, 

I'll  gie  cuckold  to  naebody. 
I  hae  a  penny  to  spend, 

There — thanks  to  naebody  ; 
I  hae  naething  to  lend, 

I'll  borrow  frae  naebody. 


I  am  naebody's  lord — 

1^11  be  slave  to  naebody ; 
I  hae  a  guid  braid  sword, 

I'll  tak  dunts  frae  naebody. 
I'll  be  merry  and  free, 

I'll  be  sad  for  naebody ; 
Naebody  cares  for  me, 

I'll  care  for  naebody. 


CXXI. 

0,  FOR  ANE-AND-TWENTY,   TAM! 

Tune — "  The  Moudiewort.' 

[In  his  memoranda  on  this  song  in  the  Museum,  Barm 
Bays  simply,  •«  This  song  is  mme."  The  air  for  a  century 
before  had  to  bear  the  burthen  of  very  ordinary  words. 1 

CHORUS. 

An  0,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam, 

An'  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam» 

I'll  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin'  sang, 
An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty.  Tarn. 

I. 
They  snool  me  sair,  and  haud  me  down. 

And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tam  ! 
But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel  roun* 

And  then  comes  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

II. 

A  gleib  o'  Ian',  a  claut  o'  gear. 

Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam  , 
At  kith  or  kin  I  need  na  spier, 

An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


253 


III. 
They'll  hae  me  wed  a  wealthy  coof, 

Tho'  I  mysel'  hae  plenty,  Tarn ; 
But  hear'st  thou,  laddie — there's  my  loof — 
I'm  thine  at  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 
An  0,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  I 

An  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam ! 
I'll  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin'  sang, 
An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


CXXII. 

0  KENMURE'S   ON  AND  AWA. 

Tune — "  0  Kenmure^s  on  and  awa,  Willie." 

[The  second  and  third,  and  concluding  verses  of  this 
Jacobite  strain,  were  written  by  Burns:  the  whole  wag 
Heat  in  his  own  iiandwriting  to  the  Museum.] 

I. 
0  Eenmure's  on  and  awa,  Willie  I 

0  Kenmure's  on  and  awa ! 
And  Kenmure's  lord's  the  bravest  lord, 

That  ever  Galloway  saw. 

II. 
Success  to  Kenmure's  band,  Willie  ! 

Success  to  Kenmure's  band  ; 
There's  no  a  heart  that  fears  a  Whig, 

That  rides  by  Kenmure's  hand. 


Here's  Kenmure's  health  in  wine,  Willie ! 

Here's  Kenmure's  health  in  wine  ; 
There  ne'er  was  a  coward  o'  Kenmure's  blade, 

Nor  yet  o'  Gordon's  line. 

IV. 

0  Kenmure's  lads  are  men,  Willie  ! 

0  Kenmure's  lads  are  men ; 
Their  hearts  and  swords  are  metal  true — 

And  that  their  faes  shall  ken. 

T. 

They'll  live  or  die  wi'  fame,  Willie ! 

They'll  live  or  die  wi'  fame  ; 
But  soon  wi'  sounding  victorie. 

May  Kenmure's  lord  come  hame. 


Here's  him  that's  far  awa,  Willie, 

Here's  him  that's  far  awa ; 
And  here's  the  flower  that  I  love  best — 

The  rose  that's  like  tho  snaw  I 


cxxni. 

MY  COLLIER  LADDIE. 

Tune—"  The  Collier  Laddie." 

[The  Collier  Laddie  was  communicated  by  Bums,  and 
in  his  handwriting,  to  the  Museum  :  it  is  chiefly  h.s  LWt 
composition,  though  coloured  by  an  older  strain.] 

I. 

Where  live  ye,  my  bonnie  lass  ? 

An'  tell  me  what  they  ca'  ye ; 
My  name,  she  says,  is  Mistress  Jean, 

And  1  follow  the  Collier  Laddie. 
My  name  she  says,  is  Mistress  Jean, 

And  I  follow  the  Collier  Laddie. 


See  you  not  yon  hills  and  dales, 
The  sun  shines  on  sae  brawlie ! 

They  a'  are  mine,  and  they  shall  be  thine, 
Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

They  a'  are  mine,  and  tbey  shall  be  thine, 
Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

III. 
Ye  shall  gang  in  gay  attire, 

Weel  buskit  up  sae  gaudy ; 
And  ane  to  wait  on  every  hand, 

Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 
And  ane  to  wait  on  every  hand. 

Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 


Tho'  ye  had  a'  the  sun  shines  on. 
And  the  earth  conceals  sae  lowly ; 

I  wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it  a', 
And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie. 

I  wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it  a'. 
And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie. 


I  can  win  my  five  pennies  a  day, 
And  spen't  at  night  fu'  brawlie ; 

And  make  my  bed  in  the  Collier's  neuk. 
And  lie  down  wi'  my  Collier  Laddie. 

And  make  my  bed  in  the  Collier's  neuk. 
And  lie  down  wi'  my  Collier  Laddie. 


Lnve  for  luve  is  the  bargain  for  me, 

Tho'  the  wee  cot-house  should  baud  me  j 

And  the  world  before  me  to  win  my  bread. 
And  fair  fa'  my  Collier  Laddie. 

And  the  world  before  me  to  win  my  bread. 
And  fair  fa'  my  Collier  Laddie. 


252 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


The  eagle's  gaze  alone  surveys 
The  sun's  meridian  splendour: 

I  wad  in  vain  essay  the  strain, 
The  deed  too  daring  brave  is ! 

I'll  drap  the  lyre,  and  mute  admire 
The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 


CXIX. 
THE  WEARY  FUND   0'    TOW. 

Tune — "  The  weary  Fund  o'  Tow.''^ 

["This  soiig,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  "  is  in  the 
Musical  Museum;  l)ut  it  is  not  attributed  to  Burns.  Mr. 
Allan  Cunningham  does  not  state  upon  what  authority  he 
has  assigned  it  to  Burns."  The  critical  knight  might 
have,  if  lie  had  pleased,  stated  similar  objections  to  many 
Bongs  which  he  took  without  scruple  from  my  edition, 
wnere  they  were  claimed  for  Burns,  for  the  first  time, 
and  on  good  authority.  I,  however,  as  it  happens,  did 
not  claim  the  song  wholly  for  the  poet:  1  said  "the 
idea  of  the  song  is  old,  and  perhaps  some  of  the  words." 
It  was  sent  by  Burns  to  the  Museum,  and  in  his  own  hand- 
writing.] 


The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund, 

The  weary  pund  o'  tow : 
I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 

Before  she  spin  her  tow. 
I  bought  my  wife  a  stane  o'  lint 

As  gude  as  e'er  did  grow ; 
And  a'  that  she  has  made  o'  that, 

Is  ae  poor  pund  o'  tow. 


There  sat  a  bottle  in  a  bole, 

Beyont  the  ingle  low, 
And  ay  she  took  the  tither  souk, 

To  drouk  the  stowrie  tow. 


Quoth  I,  for  shame,  ye  dirty  dame, 
Gae  spin  your  tap  o'  tow ! 

She  took  the  rock,  and  wi'  a  knock 
She  brak  it  o'er  my  pow. 


At  last  her  feet — I  sang  to  see't — 
Gaed  foremost  o'er  the  knowe  ; 
And  or  I  wad  anither  jad, 
I'll  wallop  in  a  tow. 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund, 

The  weary  pund  o'  tow ! 
I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 
Before  she  spin  her  tow. 


cxx. 

NAEBODY. 
Tune—**  Naebody:* 

[Burns  had  built  his  house  at  Ellisland,  sowed  his  firgt 
crop,  the  woman  he  loved  was  at  his  side,  and  hope  wag 
high;  no  wonder  that  he  indulged  in  this  independsnl 
■train.] 

I. 

I  HAE  a  wife  o'  my  ain — 

I'll  partake  wi'  naebody ; 
I'll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane, 

I'll  gie  cuckold  to  naebody. 
I  hae  a  penny  to  spend, 

There — thanks  to  naebody  ; 
I  hae  naething  to  lend, 

I'll  borrow  frae  naebody. 

II. 

I  am  naebody's  lord — 

I'll  be  slave  to  naebody ; 
I  hae  a  guid  braid  sword, 

I'll  tak  dunts  frae  naebody. 
I'll  be  merry  and  free, 

I'll  be  sad  for  naebody  ; 
Naebody  cares  for  me, 

I'll  care  for  naebody. 


CXXI. 
0,  FOR  ANE-AND-TWENTY,   TAMI 

Tune — "  The  Moudiewori.' 

[In  his  memoranda  on  this  song  in  the  Museum,  Barm 
says  simply,  "  This  song  is  mme."  The  air  for  a  centurj 
before  had  to  bear  the  burthen  of  very  ordinary  worda.l 

CHORUS. 

An  0,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam, 

An'  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam, 

I'll  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin'  sang, 
An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

I. 
They  snool  me  sair,  and  hand  me  down, 

And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tam  ! 
But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel  roun* 

And  then  comes  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


A  gleib  o'  Ian',  a  claut  o'  gear, 
Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam  , 

At  kith  or  kin  I  need  na  spier, 
An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                       253 

III. 

cxxni. 

They'll  hae  me  wed  a  wealthy  coof, 

Tho'  I  mysel'  hae  plenty,  Tarn  ; 

MY  COLLIER  LADDIE. 

But  hear'st  thou,  laddie— there's  my  loof— 

Tune—"  The  Collier  Laddie^ 

I'm  thine  at  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 
An  0,  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 

[The  Collier  Laddie  was  communicated  by  Bums,  and 
in  his  handwriting,  to  the  Museum  :  it  is  chiefly  \\jiLwn 

An  hey,  sweet  ane-and-twenty,  Tam ! 

composition,  though  coloured  by  an  older  strain.] 

I'll  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin'  sang, 

An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

I. 

Where  live  ye,  my  bonnie  lass  ? 

An'  tell  me  what  they  ca'  ye ; 

My  name,  she  says,  is  Mistress  Jean, 

CXXII. 

And  1  follow  the  Collier  Laddie. 

0   KENMURE'S   ON  AND   AW  A. 

My  name  she  says,  is  Mistress  Jean, 

And  I  follow  the  ColUer  Laddie. 

Tune — "  0  Kenmure's  on  and  awa,  Willie." 

[The  second  and  third,  and  concluding  verses  of  this 

II. 

Jacobite  strain,  were  written  by  Burns:  the  whole  was 

See  you  not  yon  hills  and  dales. 

sent  in  his  own  handwriting  to  the  Museum.] 

The  sun  shines  on  sae  brawlie ! 

I. 

They  a'  are  mine,  and  they  shall  be  thine, 

0  Eenmure's  on  and  awa,  Willie  t 

Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

0  Kenmure's  on  and  awa  ! 

They  a'  are  mine,  and  they  shall  be  thine, 

And  Kenmure's  lord's  the  bravest  lord, 

Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

That  ever  Galloway  saw. 

III. 

11. 

Ye  shall  gang  in  gay  attire. 

Success  to  Kenmure's  band,  Willie  ! 

Weel  buskit  up  sae  gaudy ; 
And  ane  to  wait  on  every  hand. 

Success  to  Kenmure's  band  ; 

Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 
And  ane  to  wait  on  every  hand, 
Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

There's  no  a  heart  that  fears  a  Whig, 
That  rides  by  Kenmure's  hand. 

III. 
Here's  Kenmure's  health  in  wine,  Willie ! 

IV. 

Tho'  ye  had  a'  the  sun  shines  on. 

Here's  Kenmure's  health  in  wine  ; 

And  the  earth  conceals  sae  lowly  ; 

There  ne'er  was  a  coward  o*  Kenmure's  blude, 

I  wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it  a', 

Nor  yet  o'  Gordon's  line. 

And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie. 

I  wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it  a*, 

IV. 

And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie. 

0  Kenmure's  lads  are  men,  Willie  ! 

0  Kenmure's  lads  are  men ; 

V. 

Their  hearts  and  swords  are  metal  true — 

I  can  win  my  five  pennies  a  day. 

And  that  their  faes  shall  ken. 

And  spen't  at  night  fu'  brawlie ; 

And  make  my  bed  in  the  Collier's  neuk. 

V. 

And  lie  down  wi'  my  Collier  Laddie. 

They'll  live  or  die  wi'  fame,  Willie  I 

And  make  my  bed  in  the  Collier's  neuk. 

They'll  live  or  die  wi'  fame  ; 

And  lie  down  wi'  my  Collier  Laddie. 

But  soon  wi*  sounding  victorie. 

May  Kenmure's  lord  come  hame. 

VI. 

Luve  for  luve  is  the  bargain  for  me, 

VI. 

Tho'  the  wee  cot-house  should  baud  me; 

Here's  him  that's  far  awa,  Willie, 

And  the  world  before  me  to  win  my  bread. 

Here's  him  that's  far  awa ; 

And  fair  fa'  my  Collier  Laddie. 

And  here's  the  flower  that  I  love  best— 

And  the  world  before  me  to  win  my  bread. 

The  rose  that's  like  the  snaw  I 

And  fair  fa'  my  Collier  Laddie. 

256 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


There's  Johnie  o'  the  Buskie-glen, 
Fu'  is  his  barn,  fu'  is  his  byre  ; 

Tak  this  frae  me,  my  bonnie  hen, 
It's  plenty  beets  the  luver's  fire. 

III. 
For  Johnie  o'  the  Buskie-glen, 

I  dinna  care  a  single  flie  ; 
He  lo'es  sae  weel  his  craps  and  kye, 

He  has  nae  luve  to  spare  for  me  : 
But  blithe's  the  blink  o'  Robie's  e'e, 

And  weel  I  wat  he  lo'es  me  dear: 
Ae  blink  o'  him  I  wad  nae  gie 

For  Buskie-glen  and  a'  his  gear. 


0  thoughtless  lassie,  life's  a  faught ; 

The  canniest  gate,  the  strife  is  sair ; 
But  ay  fu'  han't  is  fechtin  best, 

An  hungry  care's  an  unco  care: 
But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spare, 

An'  wilfu'  folk  maun  hae  their  will ; 
Syne  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair, 

Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yill. 


0,  gear  will  buy  me  rigs  o'  land, 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye ; 
But  the  tender  heart  o'  leesome  luve, 

The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buy ; 
"We  may  be  poor — Robie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  luve  lays  on; 
Content  and  luve  brings  peace  and  joy — 

What  mair  hae  queens  upon  a  throne  ? 


CXXIX, 
FAIR    ELIZA. 

A  Gaelic  Air. 

[The  name  of  the  heroine  of  this  song  was  at  first  Ra- 
bina:  l)Ut  Johnson,  the  pul)lisher,  alarmed  at  admitting 
■oraething  new  into  verse,  caused  Eliza  to  be  substituted ; 
which  was  a  positive  fraud;  foi  Rablna  was  a  r^al  lady, 
4nd  a  lovely  one,  and  Eliza  one  of  air.] 


Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ae  kind  blink  before  we  part, 
Rue  on  thy  despairing  lover  ! 

Canst  thou  break  his  faithfu'  heart  ? 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza ; 

If  to  love  thy  heart  denies, 
For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence 

Under  friendship's  kind  disguise ! 


Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I  oflFended  ? 

The  oflFence  is  loving  thee  : 
Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever, 

Wha  for  time  wad  gladly  die  ? 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom, 

Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe  ; 
Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden. 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

III. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom. 

In  the  pride  o'  sunny  noon ; 
Not  the  little  sporting  fairy. 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon; 
Not  the  poet,  in  the  moment 

Fancy  lightens  in  his  e'e, 
Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture, 

That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 


cxxx. 

YE  JACOBITES   BY  NAME. 

Tune — "  Ye  Jacobites  by  name.'* 

["  Ye  Jacobites  by  name,"  appeared  for  the  first  time 
in  the  Museum :  it  was  sent  in  the  handwriting  of  Burns.] 


Ye  Jacobites  by  name,  give  an  ear,  give  an  ear ; 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name,  give  an  ear ; 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name, 

Your  fautes  I  will  proclaim. 
Your  doctrines  I  maui  blame-  • 
You  shall  hear. 


What  is  right,  and  what  is  wrarg,  by  the  law,  by 
the  law  ? 
What  is  right  and  what  is  wr^ng,  by  the  law  ? 
What  is  right  and  what  is  wrang  ? 
A  short  sword,  and  a  lanj', 
A  weak  arm,  and  a  Strang 
For  to  draw. 


What  makes  heroic  strife,  fam'd  afar,  fam'd 
afar? 
What  makes  heroic  strife,  fam'd  afar  ? 
What  makes  heroic  strife  ? 
To  whet  th'  assassin's  knife. 
Or  hunt  a  parent's  life 
Wi'  bluidie  war. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


267 


IV. 

Then  let  your  schemes  alone,  in  the  state,  In 
the  state ; 
Then  let  your  schemes  alone  in  the  state ; 
Then  let  your  schemes  alone, 
Adore  the  rising  sun, 
And  leave  a  man  undone 
To  his  fate. 


CXXXI. 

THE  BANKS   OF  BOON. 

[fikst  version.] 

[An  Ay  «hire  legend  says  the  heroine  of  this  affecting 
rfong  wai  Miss  Kennedy,  of  Dalgarrock,  a  young  crea- 
ture, beoitiful  and  accomplished,  who  fell  a  victim  to 
ner  love  for  her  kinsman,  McDoual,  of  Logan.] 


Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair ; 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care ! 


Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  love  was  true. 


Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird. 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang. 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

IV. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love ; 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 


Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 
Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ; 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose. 
But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


cxzxn. 

THE  BANKS  0'  DOOH. 

[•lOOJID  TBBIIOV.] 

Tnne—'* Caledonian  JIunft  IhUfkL** 

[Bams  injared  soiMwhat  th«  timplielty  oT  tk«  m^  ^ 
adapting  it  to  a  mw  air,  aeeidrntoUj 


.      „  -, , , bjraa 

amateur  who  was  directed,  if  b«  dMtrvd  to  crcat*  a  S«o«. 
tiih  air,  to  keep  his  fingars  to  th»  black  k»j9  of  tha  kmt^ 

■ichord  and  preaanra  rhythm.] 

I. 

Ti  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair ; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  bird*. 

And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care ! 
Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbliof  bird. 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn : 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joyi. 

Departed — never  to  retom ! 

II. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine ; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  lave. 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pa'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose. 

But,  ah  I  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  bml 


oxxxn. 

WILLIE   WASTLR. 

Tune— "J!U  tigkt  smm  of  MmimC* 

[The  paraon  who  ia  raiaad  to  tba  itiaig  1 1  iiMs  lIstllM 
of  haroina  of  this  auag,  waa,  it  ia  Mirf.  a  tefaM*>«1*  flf 
thaold  tchool  of  dowattia  eaia  •aA  aailaa—— » nff 
Uvwl  Bigh  tha  peat,  at  Elliatead.] 

I. 
WiLLiB  WasUe  dwaJt  on  Twm4. 

The  spot  they  call'd  it 
Willie  was  a  wabsUr  gnid. 

Cou'd  stown  a  elne  wt*  mBm  betft; 
He  had  a  wife  wae  do«r  aa4  din. 

0  Tinkler  Madgle  wni  \m  ■iiher: 
Bio  n  wife  ae  WilUt  Im4, 

1  wnd  nM  fie  n  tatiM  *»  ^m. 

II. 
She  has  an  e*»— eke  kne  WH  na% 

The  cat  hae  twn  Ike  t«j  ••kwi 


17 


258 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Five  rusty  teeth,  forbye  a  stump, 

We'll  sew  a  green  ribbon 

A  clapper-tongue  wad  deave  a  miller  : 

Round  about  his  hat. 

A  whiskin'  beard  about  her  mou', 

And  that  will  let  them  ken 

Her  nose  and  chin  they  threaten  ither — 

He's  to  marry  yet. 

Sic  a  -wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wad  nae  gie  a  button  for  her. 

III. 

Lady  Mary  Ann 

III. 

Was  a  flower  i'  the  dew, 

She's  bow  hough' d,  she's  hem  shinn'd, 

Sweet  was  its  smell, 

A  limpin'  leg,  a  hand-breed  shorter ; 

And  bonnie  was  its  hue ; 

She's  twisted  right,  she's  twisted  left, 

And  the  langer  it  blossom'd 

To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter : 

The  sweeter  it  grew ; 

She  has  a  hump  upon  her  breast, 

For  the  lily  in  the  bud 

The  twin  o'  that  upon  her  shouther — 

Will  be  bonnier  yet. 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wad  nae  gie  a  button  for  her. 

IV. 

Young  Charlie  Cochran 

IV. 

Was  the  sprout  of  an  aik ; 

Auld  baudrans  by  the  ingle  sits. 

Bonnie  and  bloomin' 

An'  wi'  her  loof  her  face  a-washin' ; 

And  straught  was  its  make : 

But  Willie's  wife  is  nae  sae  trig. 

The  sun  took  delight 

She  dights  her  grunzie  wi'  a  hushion. 

To  shine  for  its  sake, 

,Her  walie  nieves  like  midden-creels. 

And  it  will  be  the  brag 

Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan-Water — 

0'  the  forest  yet. 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had. 

I  wad  nae  gie  a  button  for  her. 

V. 

The  simmer  is  gane. 

When  the  leaves  they  were  greei 

And  the  days  are  awa. 

That  we  hae  seen  ; 

CXXXIV. 

But  far  better  days 

I  trust  will  come  again, 

LADY   MARY  ANN. 

For  my  bonnie  laddie's  young. 

Tune — "  Craigtown's  growing.''^ 

[The  poet  sent  this  eong  to  the  Museum,  in  his  own 
Handwriting :  yet  part  of  it  is  believed  to  be  old ;  how 
much  cannot  be  well  known,  with  such  skill  has  he  made 
kis  interpolations  and  changes.] 


0,  Lady  Mary  Ann 

Looks  o'er  the  castle  wa', 
She  saw  three  bonnie  boys 

Playing  at  the  ba' ; 
The  youngest  he  was 

The  flower  amang  them  a'- 
My  bonnie  laddie's  young 

But  he's  growin'  yet. 


0  father  !  0  father ! 

An'  ye  think  it  fit. 
We'll  send  him  a  year 

To  the  college  yet : 


But  he's  growin'  yet 


cxxxv. 


SUCH  A  PARCEL  OF  ROGUES  IN  A  NATION. 
Tune. — "^  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation.'* 

[This  song  was  written  by  Bums  in  a  moment  of 
honest  indignation  at  the  northern  scoundrels  who  sold  to 
those  of  the  south  the  independence  of  Scotland,  at  th« 
time  of  the  Union.] 


Fareweel  to  a'  our  Scottish  fame, 
Fareweel  our  ancient  glory, 

Fareweel  even  to  the  Scottish  name, 
Sae  fam'd  in  martial  story. 

Now  Sark  rins  o'er  the  Solway  sands, 
And  Tweed  rins  to  the  ocean, 


OF   KOBERT   BURNS. 


259 


To  mark  where  England's  province  stands — 
Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation. 


What  force  or  guile  could  not  subdue, 

Thro'  many  warlike  ages, 
Is  wrought  now  by  a  coward  few 

For  hireling  traitor's  wages. 
The  English  steel  we  could  disdain ; 

Secure  in  valour's  station  ; 
But  English  gold  has  been  our  bane — 

Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation. 


0  would,  or  I  had  seen  the  day 

That  treason  thus  could  sell  us, 
My  auld  gray  head  had  lien  in  clay, 

Wi'  Bruce  and  loyal  Wallace  ! 
But  pith  and  power,  till  my  last  hour, 

I'll  mak'  this  declaration  ; 
We're  bought  and  sold  for  English  gold — 

Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation. 


CXXXVI. 

THE  CARLE  OF  KELLYBURN  BRAES. 

Tune — "  Eellyhurn  Braea.^' 

[Of  this  song  Mrs.  Burns  said  to  Cromek,  when  running 
ler  finger  over  the  long  list  of  Ij'rics  which  her  husband 
lad  written  or  amended  for  the  Museum,  "Robert  gae 
this  one  a  terrible  brusliing."  A  considerable  portion  of 
the  old  still  remains.] 

I. 

There  lived  a  carle  on  Kellyburn  braes, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme). 

And  he  had  a  wife  was  the  plague  o'  his  days  ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

II. 

A !  day  as  the  carle  gaed  up  the  lang  glen, 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme), 
He  met  wi'  the  devil ;  says,  "  How  do  yow  fen  ?" 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

III. 
•'  I'  <re  got  a  bad  wife,  sir ;  that's  a'  my  complaint; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme). 
For,  saving  your  presence,  to  her  ye're  a  saint; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime." 


"  It's  neither  your  stot  nor  your  staig  I  shal 
crave, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme), 
But  gie  me  your  wife,  man,  for  her  I  must  have. 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime." 

V. 

"0  welcome,  most  kindly,"  the  blythe  carlo 
said, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme), 
**  But  if  ye  can  match  her,  ye're  waur  nor  ye're 
ca'd. 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime." 

VI. 

The  devil  has  got  the  auld  wife  on  his  back ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme). 
And,  like  a  poor  pedlar,  he's  carried  his  pack  ; 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

VII. 

He's  carried  her  hame  to  his  ain  hallan-door ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme), 
Syne  bade  her' gae  in,  for  a  b — h  and  a  w — e. 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

VIII. 

Then  straight  he  makes  fifty,  the  pick  o'  his 
band, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme). 
Turn  out  on  her  guard  in  the  clap  of  a  hand ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

IX. 

The  carlin  gaed  thro'  them  like  ony  wnd  bear, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme), 
Whate'er  she  gat  hands  on  cam  near  her  nae 
mair; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

X. 

A  reekit  wee  devil  looks  over  the  wa' ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme), 
"  0,  help,  master,  help,  or  she'll  ruin  us  a', 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime." 

XT. 

The  devil  he  swore  by  the  edge  o'  his  knife, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme). 


1:60 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


He  pitied  the  man  that  was  tied  to  a  wife ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 


The  devil  he  swore  by  the  kirk  and  the  bell, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme), 

He  was  not  in  wedlock,  thank  heav'n,  but  in  hell; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 

XIII. 

Then  Satan  has  travelled  again  wi'  his  pack ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme). 
And  to  her  auld  husband  he's  carried  her  back : 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime. 


"  I  hae  been  a  devil  the  feck  o'  my  life  ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme), 
But  ne'er  was  in  hell,  till  I  met  wi'  a  wife ; 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue  is  in 
prime." 


CXXXVII. 
JOCKEY'S  TA'EN  THE  PARTING  KISS. 

Tune — "  Jockey's  taHen  the  parting  kiss." 

[Burns,  when  he  sent  this  song  to  the  Museum,  said 
nothing  of  its  origin:  and  he  is  silent  about  it  in  his 
memoranda.] 

I. 

Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss. 

O'er  the  mountains  he  is  gane ; 
And  with  him  is  a'  my  bliss. 

Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 
Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 

Flashy  sleets  and  beating  rain ! 
Spare  my  luve,  thou  feathery  snaw, 

Drifting  o'er  the  frozen  plain. 


When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 

O'er  the  day's  fair,  gladsome  e'e, 
Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep. 

Sweetly  blithe  his  waukening  be ! 
He  will  think  on  her  he  loves. 

Fondly  he'll  repeat  her  name  ; 
For  where'er  he  distant  roves. 

Jockey's  heart  is  still  at  hame. 


cxxxvin. 

LADY  ONLIE. 

Tune—"  The  Ruffian's  Rant" 

[Communicated  to  the  Museum  in  the  handwriting  d 
Burns  :  part,  but  not  much,  is  believed  to  be  old.] 

I. 
A'  THE  lads  o'  Thornie-bank, 

When  they  gae  to  the  shore  o'  Bucky, 
They'll  step  in  an'  tak'  a  pint 
Wi'  Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky  ! 
Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky ! 

Brews  good  ale  at  shore  o'  Bucky ; 
I  wish  her  sale  for  her  gude  ale, 
The  best  on  a'  the  shore  o'  Bucky. 


Her  house  sae  bien,  her  cnrch  sae  clean, 

I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chucky ; 

And  cheerlie  blinks  the  ingle-gleed 

Of  Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky ! 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky, 

Brews  good  ale  at  shore  o'  Bucky  • 
I  wish  her  sale  for  her  gude  ale. 
The  best  on  a'  the  shore  o'  Bucky. 


CXXXIX. 

THE   CHEVALIER'S   LAMENT. 
Tune—"  Captain  O'Kean." 

["  Composed,"  says  Burns  to  M'Murdo,  "  at  the  desire 
of  a  friend  who  had  an  equal  enthusiasm  for  the  air  and 
the  subject."  The  friend  alluded  to  is  supposed  to  be 
Robert  Cleghorn :  he  loved  the  air  much,  and  he  was 
much  of  a  Jacobite.] 

I. 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves  re- 
turning. 
The  murmuring  streamlet  winds  clear  thro' 
the  vale ; 
The   hawthorn   trees   blow  in  the  dew  of  the 
morning. 
And  wild  scatter'd  cowslips  bedeck  the  green 
dale: 
But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can  seem 
fair. 
While  the  lingering  moments  are   number'd 
by  care  ? 
No   flow'rs  gaily  springing,  nor  birds  sweetly 
singing. 
Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


5i61 


The  deed  that  I  dared,  could  it  merit  their  malice, 
A  king  and  a  father  to  place  on  his  throne  ? 
His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right  are  these 
valleys, 
Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  but  I  can 
find  none ; 
But  'tis  not  my  sufFerings  thus  wretched,  for- 
lorn; 
My  brave  gallant  friends !   'tis  your  ruin  I 
mourn ; 
Your  deeds  proved  so  loyal  in  hot-bloody  trial — 
Alas !  I  can  make  you  no  sweeter  return ! 


CXL. 

SONG  OF   DEATH.  ' 
Air — "  Oran  an  Aoig." 

["  I  have  just  finished  the  following  song,"  says  Burns 
to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  "which  to  a  lady,  the  descendant  of 
Wallace,   and  herself  the  mother  of  several   soldiers, 
aeeds  neither  preface  nor  apology."] 
Scene — A  field  of  battle.    Time  of  the  day,  evening.    The 

wounded  and  dying  of  the  victorious  army  are  supposed 

to  join  in  the  following  song : 

I. 
Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and 

ye  skies, 
Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun ; 
Farewell  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear  tender 

ties — 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run  I 


Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life's  gloomy 
foe! 

Go  frighten  the  coward  and  slave ; 
Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant !  but  know, 

No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave  I 


Thou  strik'st  the  dull  peasant — ^he  sinks  in  the 
dark. 

Nor  saves  e'en  the  wreck  of  a  name ; 
Thou  strik'st  the  young  hero — a  glorious  mark  I 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame ! 


In  the  field  of  proud  honour — our  swords  in  otir 
hands, 

Our  king  and  our  country  to  save — 
While  victory  shines  on  life's  last  ebbing  sands, 

Oh !  who  would  not  die  with  the  brave ! 


CXLI. 

.  FLOW   GENTLY,    SWEET   AFTON. 

Tune—"  Afton  Water." 

[The  scenes  on  Afton  Water  are  beautiful,  and  the 
poet  felt  them,  as  well  as  the  generous  kindness  of  hia 
earliest  patroness,  Mrs.  General  Stewart,  of  Afton- kfJge, 
when  he  wrote  this  sweet  pastoral.] 

I. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton !    among  thy  green 

braes. 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream — 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


Thou  stock-dove,  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the 
glen; 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den ; 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  for- 
bear— 

I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 


How  lofty,  sweet  Afton !  thy  neighbouring  hills, 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding 

rills ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye- 


How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild   in   the  woodlands   the   primroses 

blow! 
There,  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea. 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 


Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides. 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 
As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear 
wave. 

VI. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton!    among  thy  grc<n 

braes. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ! 
My  Marys  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream — 
Flow   gently,    sweet  Afton!    disturb    not   he' 

dream. 


£62                                   THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

CXLH. 

III. 

THE   SMiLIKG  SPRING. 

We'll  live  a'  our  days. 

And  them  that  come  behin', 

Tune—"  The  Bonnie  Bell." 

Let  them  do  the  like, 

['  Bonnie  Bell,"  was  first  printed  in  the  Museum :  who 

And  spend  the  gear  they  win. 

the  heroine  was  the  poet  has  neglected  to  tell  us,  and  it 

Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro', 

IS  a  pity.] 

For  we  hae  mickle  ado, 

I. 

Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro', 

The  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 

For  we  hae  mickle  ado. 

And  surly  "Winter  grimly  flies ; 
Now  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  waters, 

And  bonnie  blue  are  the  sunny  skies ; 
Fresh   o'er    the   mountains   breaks    forth   the 

CXLIV. 

morning, 

THE   GALLANT   WEAVER. 

The  ev'ning  gilds  the  ocean's  swell ; 

Tune— J'Ae  Weavers'  March:* 

All  creatures  joy  in  the  sun'a  returning, 
And  I  rejoice  in  my  bonnie  Sell. 

[Sent  by  the  poet  to  the  Museum.    Neither  tradition 
nor  criticism  has  noticed  it,  but  the  song  is  populai 

II. 

among  the  looms,  in  the  west  of  Scotland.] 

The  flowery  Spring  leada  sunny  Summer, 

I. 

And  yellow  Autumn  pressca  near, 

Where  Cart  rins  rowin  to  the  sea. 

Then  in  his  turn  comes  gloomy  Winter, 

By  mony  a  flow'r  and  spreading  tree. 

Till  smiling  Spring  again  appear. 

There  lives  a  lad,  the  lad  for  me. 

Thus  Seasons  dancing,  life  advancing, 

He  is  a  gallant  weaver. 

Old  Time  and  Nature  their  changes  tell, 

Oh,  I  had  wooers  aught  or  nine. 

But  never  ranging,  still  unchanging. 

They  gied  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine  ; 

I  adore  my  bonnie  Bell. 

And  I  was  fear'd  my  heart  would  tine, 

And  I  gied  it  to  the  weaver. 

II. 

My  daddie  sign'd  my  tocher-band, 

CXLIII. 

To  gie  the  lad  that  has  the  land ; 

THE   CARLES   OF  DYSART. 

But  to  my  heart  I'll  add  my  hand, 
And  gie  it  to  the  weaver. 

Tune—"  Hey  ca'  thro':' 

While  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers; 

[Communicated  to  the  Museum  by  Burns  in  his  own 

While  bees  delight  in  op'ning  flowers ; 

'^.andwriting  :  part  of  it  is  his  composition,  and  some  be- 

While  corn  grows  green  in  simmer  showers, 

ieve  the  whole.] 

I. 
Up  wi'  the  carles  o'  Dysart, 
And  the  lads  o'  Buckhaven, 

I'll  love  my  gallant  weaver. 

And  the  kimmers  o'  Largo, 

And  the  lasses  o'  Leven. 

CXLV. 

Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro'. 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado  ; 

THE  BAIRNS   GAT   OUT. 

Hey,  ca'  thro',  ca'  thro', 

Tune — "  The  deuks  dang  o'er  my  daddie.** 

For  we  hae  mickle  ado. 

[Burns  found  some  of  the  sentiments  and  a  few  of  th« 

words  of  this  song  in  a  strain,  rather  rough  and  homespun 

II. 

of  Scotland's  elder  day.    He  communicated  it  to  the  Mu. 

We  hae  tales  to  tell. 

seum.] 

And  we  hae  sangs  to  sing ; 

I. 

We  hae  pennies  to  spend. 

The  bairns  gat  out  wi'  an  unco  shout, 

And  we  hae  pints  to  bring. 

The  deuks  dang  o'er  my  daddie,  0 1 

OF   KOBEllT   BUKNS. 


263 


The  fien' -ma-care,  quo'  the  feirrie  auld  wife, 

He  was  but  a  paidlin  body,  0  I 
He  paidles  out,  an*  he  paidles  in, 

An'  he  paidles  late  an'  early,  0 ! 
This  seven  lang  years  I  hae  lien  by  his  side, 

An'  he  is  but  a  fusionless  carlie,  0 1 


0,  hand  your  tongue,  my  feirrie  auld  wife, 

0,  haud  your  tongue,  now  Nansie,  0 1 
I've  seen  the  day,  and  sae  hae  ye, 

Ye  wadna  been  sae  donsie,  0 ! 
I've  seen  the  day  ye  butter'd  my  brose. 

And  cuddled  me  late  and  early,  0  1 
But  downa  do's  come  o'er  me  now. 

And,  oh  !  I  feel  it  sairly,  0 ! 


CXLVI. 
SHE'S  FAIR   AND   FAUSE. 

Tune — ''She's  fair  and  fame." 

[One  of  the  happiest  as  well  as  the  most  sarcastic  of 
the  songs  of  the  North :  the  air  is  almost  as  happy  as  the 
words.] 


She's  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart, 

I  lo'ed  her  meikle  and  lang ; 
She's  broken  her  vow,  she's  broken  my  heart. 

And  I  may  e'en  gae  hang. 
A  coof  cam  in  wi'  routh  o'  gear, 
And  I  hae  tint  my  dearest  dear ; 
But  woman  is  but  warld's  gear, 

Sae  let  the  bonnie  lass  gang. 


Whae'er  ye  be  that  woman  love, 

To  this  be  never  blind, 
Nae  ferlie  'tis  tho'  fickle  she  prove, 

A  woman  has't  by  kind. 
0  woman,  lovely  woman  fair  ! 
An  angel  form's  fa'n  to  thy  share, 
'Twad  been  o'er  meikle  to  gien  thee  mair- 

I  mean  an  angel  mind. 


CXLVII. 
THE  EXCISEMAN. 

Tune — The  DdL  cam'  fiddling  through  ihe  iown,* 

[Composed  and  sung  by  the  poet  at  a  festive  meeting  ot 
the  excisemen  of  the  Dumfries  district.] 

I. 
The  deil  cam'  fiddling  through  the  town, 

And  danced  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman, 
And  ilka  wife  cries — **  Auld  Mahoun, 
I  wish  you  luck  o'  the  prize,  man  !" 
The  deil's  awa,  the  dell's  awa. 

The  deil's  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman  ; 
He's  danc'd  awa,  he's  danc'd  awa, 
He's  danc'd  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman ! 

II. 

We'll  mak  our  maut,  we'll  brew  our  drink, 
We'll  dance,  and  sing,  and  rejoice,  man  ; 

And  mony  braw  thanks  to  the  meikle  black  dcL 
That  danc'd  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman. 

III. 
There's  threesome  reels,  there's  foursome  reels, 

There's  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man ; 
But  the  ae  best  dance  e'er  cam  to  the  land 
Was — the  deil's  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman. 
The  deil's  awa,  the  deil's  awa, 

The  deil's  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman : 
He's  danc'd  awa,  he's  danc'd  awa. 
He's  danc'd  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman. 


cxLvin. 

THE  LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 

Tune — "Lass  of  Inverness." 

[As  Bums  passed  slowly  over  the  moor  of  Calloden 
in  one  of  his  Highland  tours,  the  lament  of  the  Lass  of  In- 
verness, it  is  said,  rose  on  his  fancy :  the  first  foar  iinei 
are  partly  old.] 

I. 
The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see; 
For  e'en  and  morn,  she  cries,  alas ! 

And  ay  the  saut  tear  blin's  her  e'e; 
Drumossie  moor — Drumossie  day— 

A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me ! 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 

My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 


264 


THE    POETICAL    WORKS 


Their  winding  sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 

Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see: 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 

That  ever  blest  a  woman's  e'e  ! 
Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be  ; 
For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 

That  ne'er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee. 


CXLIX. 

A  RED,  RED   ROSE. 
Tune — Graham'' a  Strathspey." 

[Some  editors  have  pleased  themselves  with  tracing 
the  sentiments  of  this  song  in  certain  street  ballads :  it 
resembles  them  as  much  as  a  sour  sloe  resembles  a  drop- 
'•ipe  damson.] 

I. 
0,  MY  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 
0,  my  luve's  like  themelodie. 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

II. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

'Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 


'Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun : 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 


And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a-while ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


CL. 

LOUIS,   WHAT   RECK  I  BY  THEE. 

Tune — ^^  Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee." 

^The  Jeannie  of  this  very  short,  but  very  clever  song, 
Is  Mrs.  Burns.  Her  nnme  has  no  chance  of  passing  from 
he  earth  if  impassioned  verse  can  preserve  it.] 

I. 

Loms,  what  reck  I  by  thee. 
Or  Geordie  on  his  ocean  ? 


Dyvor,  beggar  loons  to  me — 
I  reign  in  Jeannie's  bosom. 


Let  her  crown  my  love  her  law, 
And  in  her  breast  enthrone  me. 

Kings  and  nations — swith,  awa  I 
Reif  randies,  I  disown  ye ! 


CLI. 


HAD   I   THE   WYTE. 

Tune — "  Had  I  the  wyte  she  hade  me." 

[Burns  in  evoking  this  song  out  of  the  old  verses  di<i 
not  cast  wholly  out  the  spirit  of  ancient  license  in  whic^ 
our  minstrels  indulged.    He  sent  it  to  the  Museum.] 


Had  I  the  wyte,  had  I  the  wyte, 

Had  I  the  wyte  she  bade  me ; 
She  watch'd  me  by  the  hie-gate  side, 

And  up  the  loan  she  shaw'd  me ; 
And  when  I  wadna  venture  in, 

A  coward  loon  she  ca'd  me  ; 
Had  kirk  and  state  been  in  the  gate, 

I  lighted  when  she  bade  me 


Sae  craftilie  she  took  me  ben. 

And  bade  me  make  nae  clatter ; 
"For  our  ramgunshoch  glum  gudeman. 

Is  out  and  owre  the  water:" 
Whae'er  shall  say  I  wanted  grace 

When  I  did  kiss  and  dawte  her, 
Let  him  be  planted  in  my  place, 

Syne  say  I  was  the  fautor. 


Could  I  for  shame,  could  I  for  shame, 

Could  I  for  shame  refused  her  ? 
And  wadna  manhood  been  to  blame, 

Had  I  unkindly  used  her  ? 
He  claw'd  her  wi'  the  ripplin-kame. 

And  blue  and  bluidy  bruised  her ; 
When  sic  a  husband  was  frae  hame, 

What  wife  but  had  excused  her  ? 


I  dighted  ay  her  een  sae  blue, 
And  bann'd  the  cruel  randy ; 

And  weel  I  wat  her  willing  mou*, 
Was  e'en  like  sugar-candy. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        26T> 

A  gloamin-shot  it  was  I  wot, 

But  now  wi'  sighs  and  starting  tears. 

1  lighted  on  the  Monday  ; 

He  strays  amang  the  woods  and  briers; 

But  I  cam  through  the  Tysday's  dew, 

Or  in  the  glens  and  rocky  caves 

To  wanton  Willie's  brandy. 

His  sad  complaining  dowie  raves. 

II. 

I  wha  sae  late  did  range  and  rove. 

CLII. 

And  chang'd  with  every  moon  my  love, 

COMING   THROUGH    THE    RYE. 

I  little  thought  the  time  was  near. 

Tune — "  Coming  through  the  ryeJ^ 

Repentance  I  should  buy  sae  dear : 
The  slighted  maids  my  torment  see. 

[The  poet  in  this  song  removed  some  of  the  coarse 

And  laugh  at  a'  the  pangs  I  dree ; 

ihaff,  from  the  old  chant,  and  fitted  it  for  the  Museum, 

While  she,  my  cruel,  scornfu'  fair, 

(there  it  was  first  printed.] 

I. 

Forbids  me  e'er  to  see  her  mair  1 

Coming  through  the  rye,  poor  body. 

Coming  through  the  rye, 

She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie. 

CLIV. 

Coming  through  the  rye. 

Jenny's  a'  wat,  poor  body, 

OUT   OVER  THE   FORTH. 

Jenny's  seldom  dry ; 

Tune — "  Charlie  Gordon's  welcome  hame." 

She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie. 

Lin  one  of  his  letters  to  Cunningham,  dated  11th  March 

Coming  through  the  rye. 

1791,  Burns  quoted  the  four  last  lines  of  this  tender  and 

II. 

gentle  lyric,  and  inquires  how  he  likes  them.] 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body — 

I. 

Coming  through  the  rye, 

Out  over  the  Forth  I  look  to  the  north, 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body — 

But  what  is  the  north  and  its  Highlands  to  me  ? 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 
III. 

The  south  nor  the  east  gie  ease  to  my  breast, 

The  far  foreign  land,  or  the  wild  rolling  sea. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

II. 

Coming  through  the  glen, 

But  I  look  to  the  west,  when  I  gae  to  rest. 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body- 

That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers  may 

Need  the  world  ken  ? 

be; 

Jenny's  a'  wat,  poor  body ; 

For  far  in  the  west  lives  he  I  lo'e  best. 

Jenny's  seldom  dry ; 

The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me. 

She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie. 
Coming  through  the  rye. 

CLV. 

CLIII. 

THE  LASS  OF  ECCLEFECHAN. 

Tune— "JacAy  Latin." 

rOUNG  JAMIE,  PRIDE  OF  A'  THE  PLAIN. 

[Burns  in  one  of  his  professional  visits  to  Ecclefechan 

Tunc—"  The  earlin  o'  the  glen." 

was  amused  with  a  rough  old  district  song,  which  Bom« 

one  sung :  he  rendered,  nt  a  leisure  moment,  the  language 

[Sent  to  the  Museum  by  Burns  in  his  own  handwriting : 

more  delicate  and  the  sentiments  less  warm,  and  sent  it 

•art  only  is  thought  to  be  his.] 

to  the  Museum.] 

I. 

YouNQ  Jamie,  pride  of  a'  the  plain. 

I. 

Gat  ye  me,  0  gat  ye  me. 

Sae  gallant  and  sae  gay  a  swain ; 

0  gat  ye  me  wi'  naething  ? 

Thro'  a'  our  lasses  he  did  rove, 

Rock  and  reel,  and  spinnin'  wheel^ 

And  reign'd  resistless  king  of  love  : 

A  mickle  quarter  basin. 

266 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


Bye  attour,  my  gutcher  has 
A  hich  house  and  a  laigh  ane, 

A'  for  bye,  my  bonnie  sel', 
The  toss  of  Ecclcfechan. 

II. 

0  haud  your  tongue  now,  Luckie  Laing, 
0  haud  your  tongue  and  jauner ; 

T  held  the  gate  till  you  I  met, 
Syne  I  began  to  wander : 

1  tint  my  whistle  and  my  sang, 
T  tint  my  peace  and  pleasure : 

But  your  green  graff,  now,  Luckie  Laing, 
Wad  airt  me  to  my  treasure. 


CLVI. 

THE   COOPER   0'   CUDDIE. 

Tune— "^a6  at  the  bolster." 

[The  wit  of  this  song  is  better  than  its  delicacy  :  it  is 
printed  in  the  Museum,  with  the  name  of  Burns  attached.] 

I. 

The  cooper  o'  Cuddie  cam'  here  awa, 
And  ca'd  the  girrs  out  owre  us  a' — 
And  our  gude-wife  has  gotten  a  ca' 

That  anger'd  the  silly  gude-man,  0. 
We'll  hide  the  cooper  behind  the  door ; 
Behind  the  door,  behind  the  door; 
We'll  hide  the  cooper  behind  the  door, 

And  cover  him  under  a  mawn,  0. 


He  sought  them  out,  he  sought  them  in, 
Wi',  deil  hae  her !  and,  deil  hae  him ! 
But  the  body  was  sae  doited  and  blin', 
He  wist  na  where  he  was  gaun,  0. 


They  cooper'd  at  e'en,  they  cooper'd  at  morn, 
'Till  our  gude-man  has  gotten  the  scorn; 
On  ilka  brow  she's  planted  a  horn. 

And  swears  that  they  shall  stan',  0. 
We'll  hide  the  cooper  behind  the  door, 
Behind  the  door,  behind  the  door ; 
We'll  hide  the  cooper  behind  the  door, 

And  cover  him  under  a  mawn,  0. 


Tune- 


CLVII. 

SOMEBODY. 

•  For  the  sake  of  somebody. 


[Burns  seems  to  have  borrowed  two  or  three  lines  vH 
tins  lyric  from  Ramsay :  he  sent  it  to  the  Museum.^ 


Mr  heart  is  sair — I  dare  na  tell — 
My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody ; 
I  could  wake  a  winter  night 
For  the  sake  o*  somebody. 
Oh-hon !  for  somebody ! 
Oh-hey !  for  somebody ! 
I  could  range  the  world  around, 
For  the  sake  o'  somebody  I 

II. 

Te  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love, 

0,  sweetly  smile  on  somebody ! 
Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free. 
And  send  me  safe  my  somebody. 
Oh-hon !  for  somebody ! 
Oh-hey !  for  somebody ! 
I  wad  do — what  wad  I  not  ? 
For  the  sake  o'  somebody ! 


CLVIII. 
THE   CARDIN'   O'T. 

Tune — "  Salt-fish  and  dumpling s.^^ 

["  This  song,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  "  is  in  the  Mu. 
sical  Museum,  but  not  with  Burns's  name  to  it."  It  wai 
given  by  Burns  to  Johnson  in  his  own  handwriting.] 

X. 

I  COFT  a  stane  o'  haslock  woo', 

To  make  a  wat  to  Johnny  o't ; 
For  Johnny  is  my  only  jo, 
I  lo'e  him  best  of  ony  yet. 

The  cardin'  o't,  the  spinnin'  o't, 

The  warpin'  o't,  the  winnin'  o't ; 
When  ilka  ell  cost  me  a  groat. 
The  tailor  staw  the  lynin  o't. 


For  though  his  locks  be  lyart  gray, 
And  tho'  his  brow  be  held  aboon; 
Yet  I  hae  seen  him  on  a  day, 
The  pride  of  a'  the  parishen. 

The  cardin'  o't,  the  spinnin'  o't. 

The  warpin'  o't,  the  winnin'  o't; 
When  ilka  ell  cost  me  a  groat. 
The  tailor  staw  the  lynin  o't 


UiV   liOBEET   BUKNS.                                         267 

— ■  - 

VIII. 

CLIX. 

Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o'  gowd. 

WHEN  JANUAR'   WIND. 

Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivorie  ; 

Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine. 

Tune—"  The  lass  that  made  the  bed  for  me.'" 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

[Burns  found  an  old,  clever,  but  not  very  decorous 

strain,  recording  an  adventure  which  Charles  the  Second, 

IX. 

while  under  Presbyterian  rule  in  Scotand,  had  with  a 

Her  bosom  was  the  driven  snaw, 

young  lady  of  the  house  of  Port  Letham,  and  exercising 

Twa  drifted  heaps  sae  fair  to  see ; 

\i%  taste  and  skill  upon  it,  produced  the  present — still  too 

Her  limbs  the  polish'd  marble  stane, 

free  sorsj  for  the  Museum.] 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

I. 

Then  Januar'  wind  was  blawing  cauld, 

X. 

I  kiss'd  her  owre  and  owre  again, 

As  to  the  north  I  took  my  way, 

And  ay  she  wist  na  what  to  say ; 

The  mirksome  night  did  me  enfauld, 

I  laid  her  between  me  and  the  wa'^ 

I  knew  na  where  to  lodge  till  day. 

The  lassie  thought  na  lang  till  day. 

II. 

By  my  good  luck  a  maid  I  met, 

XI. 

Upon  the  morrow  when  we  rose. 

I  thank'd  her  for  her  courtesie  ; 

Just  in  the  middle  o'  my  care  ; 

And  kindly  she  did  me  invite 

But  aye  she  blush'd,  and  aye  she  sigh' J, 

To  walk  into  a  chamber  fair. 

And  said,  *'  Alas  !  ye've  ruin'd  me." 

III. 

XII. 

I  clasp'd  her  waist,  and  kiss'd  her  syne, 

1  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid, 

While  the  tear  stood  twinklin'  in  her  e'o  ; 

And  thank'd  her  for  her  courtesie  ; 

I  said,  "  My  lassie,  dinna  cry. 

I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid, 

For  ye  ay  shall  mak  the  bed  to  me." 

And  bade  her  mak  a  bed  to  me. 

XIII. 

IV. 

She  took  her  mither's  Holland  sheets, 

She  made  the  bed  baith  large  and  wide, 

And  made  them  a'  in  sarks  to  me : 

Wi'  twa  white  hands  she  spread  it  down  ; 

Blythe  and  merry  may  she  be. 

She  put  the  cup  to  her  rosy  lips. 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

And  drank,  "  Young  man,  now  sleep  ye 

soun'." 

XIV. 

The  bonnie  lass  made  the  bed  to  me. 

V. 

The  braw  lass  made  the  bed  to  me  : 

She  snatch'd  the  candle  in  her  hand, 

I'll  ne'er  forget  till  the  day  I  die. 

And  frae  my  chamber  went  wi'  speed ; 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me  I 

But  I  call'd  her  quickly  back  again 

To  lay  some  mair  below  my  head. 

VI. 

CLX. 

A  cod  she  laid  below  my  head. 

SAE   FAR   AWA. 

And  served  me  wi'  due  respect ; 

And  to  salute  her  wi'  a  kiss. 

Tune—"  Dalkeith  Maiden  Bridge." 

I  put  my  arms  about  her  neck. 

[This  song  was  sent  to  the  Museum  by  Bums,  in  ok 

own  handwriting.] 

VII. 

I. 

«*  Haud  aff  your  hands,  young  man,"  she  says, 

0,  SAD  and  heavy  should  I  part, 

"  And  dinna  sae  uncivil  be : 

But  for  her  sake  sae  far  awa ; 

If  ye  hae  onie  love  for  me. 

Unknowing  what  my  way  may  thwart. 

0  wrang  na  my  virginitie  !" 

My  native  land  sae  far  awa. 

268 


THE   POETICAL   WOEKS 


Thou  that  of  a'  things  Maker  art, 
That  form'd  this  fair  sae  far  awa, 

Gie  body  strength,  then  I'll  ne'er  start 
At  this  my  way  sae  far  awa. 


How  true  is  love  to  pure  desert, 

So  1  jve  to  her,  sae  far  awa : 
And  nocht  can  heal  my  bosom's  smart, 

While,  oh  !  she  is  sae  far  awa. 
Nane  other  love,  nane  other  dart, 

I  feel  but  hers,  sae  far  awa  ; 
But  fairer  never  touch'd  a  heart 

Than  hers,  the  fair  sae  far  awa. 


CLXI. 

I'LL   AY   CA'   IN  BY  YON   TOWN. 

Tune — "i'^Z  gae  nae  mair  to  yon  town." 

[Jean  Armour  inspired  this  very  sweet  song.  Sir 
Harris  Nicolas  says  it  is  printed  in  Cromek'a  Reliques  : 
t  was  first  printed  in  the  Museum.] 


I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town. 

And  by  yon  garden  green,  again ; 
I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town. 

And  s«e  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 
There's  nane  sail  ken,  there's  nane  sail  guess, 

What  brings  me  back  the  ga,te  again  ; 
But  she  my  fairest  faithfu'  lass. 

And  stownlins  we  sail  meet  again. 


She'll  wander  by  the  aiken  tree. 

When  trystin-time  draws  near  again  ; 
And  when  her  lovely  form  I  see, 

0  haith,  she's  doubly  dear  again ! 
I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town. 

And  by  yon  garden  green,  again ; 
I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town. 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 


CLXII. 
0,  WAT  YE  WHA'S  IN  YON  TOWN. 

Tune — "  Vll  ay  caH  in  hy  yon  town." 

[The  beautiful  Lucy  Johnstone,  married  to  Oswald, 
of  Auchencruive,  was  the  heroine  of  this  song :  it  was 
BOt,  however,  composed  expressly  in  honour  of  her 
charms.    "  As  I  was  a  good  deal  pleased,"  he  says  in  a 


letter  to  Syme,  "  with  my  performance,  I,  in  my  first  fsK 
vour,  thought  of  sending  it  to  Mrs.  Oswald."  He  sent 
it  to  the  Museum,  perhaps  also  to  the  lady.] 

CHORUS. 
0,  WAT  ye  wha's  in  yon  town. 

Ye  see  the  e'enin  sun  upon  ? 
The  fairest  dame's  in  yon  town. 

That  e'enin  sun  is  shining  on. 


Now  haply  down  yon  gay  green  shaw, 
She  wanders  ^y  yon  spreading  tree ; 

How  blest  ye  flcw'rs  that  round  her  blaw, 
Ye  catch  the  glances  o'  her  e'e! 


How  blest  ye  birds  that  round  her  sing. 
And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year  ! 

And  doubly  welcome  be  the  spring. 
The  season  to  my  Lucy  dear. 


The^sun  blinks  blithe  on  yon  town, 
And  on  yon  bonnie  braes  of  Ayr ; 

But  my  delight  in  yon  town. 
And  dearest  bliss,  is  Lucy  fair. 


Without  my  love,  not  a'  the  charms 
0'  Paradise  could  yield  me  joy; 

But  gie  me  Lucy  in  my  arms, 

And  welcome  Lapland's  dreary  sky  t 


My  cave  wad  be  a  lover's  bower, 
Tho'  raging  winter  rent  the  air ; 

And  she  a  lovely  little  flower, 

That  I  wad  tent  and  shelter  therp. 


0  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town, 

Yon  sinkin  sun's  gane  down  upon ; 
A  fairer  than's  in  yon  town 
His  setting  beam  ne'er  shone  upon. 

VII. 

If  angry  fate  is  sworn  my  foe, 

And  suffering  I  am  doom'd  to  bear ; 

1  careless  quit  aught  else  below, 

But  spare  me — spare  me,  Lucy  dear  1 

VIII. 

For  while  life's  dearest  blood  is  warm, 
•  Ae  thought  frae  her  shall  ne'er  depart. 


OF   ROBEKT   BURNS. 


265 


And  she — as  fairest  is  her  form  ! 
She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart ! 
0,  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town, 

Ye  see  the  e'enin  sun  upon  ? 
The  fairest  dame's  in  yon  town 
That  e'enin  sun  is  shining  on. 


CLXIII. 

0   MAY,    THY  MORN. 

Tune — "  May,  thy  morn." 

[Our  lyrical  legends  assign  the  inspiration  of  this  strain 
to  the  accomplished  Clarinda.  It  has  been  omitted  by 
Chambers  in  his  "  People's  Edition"  of  Burns.] 


0  Mat,  thy  mom  was  ne'er  sae  sweet 

As  the  mirk  night  o'  December ; 
For  sparkling  was  the  rosy  wine. 

And  private  was  the  chamber: 
And  dear  was  she  I  dare  na  name. 

But  I  will  ay  remember. 
And  dear  was  she  I  dare  na  name, 

But  I  will  ay  remember. 


And  here's  to  them,  that,  like  oursel, 

Can  push  about  the  jorum ; 
And  here's  to  them  that  wish  us  weel, 

May  a'  that's  guid  watch  o'er  them. 
And  here's  to  them  we  dare  na  tell, 

The  dearest  o'  the  quorum. 
And  here's  to  them  we  dare  na  tell, 

The  dearest  o'  the  quorum ! 


CLXIV. 

LOVELY    POLLY   STEWART. 

Tune — **  YeWe  welcome,  Charlie  Stewart." 

[The  poet's  eye  was  on  Polly  Stewart,  but  his  mind 
•eems  to  have  been  with  Charlie  Stewart,  and  the  Jacob- 
ite ballads,  when  he  penned  these  words ; — they  are  in 
the  Museum.] 

I. 
0  LOVELY  Polly  Stewart ! 

0  charming  Polly  Stewart! 
There's  not  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May 

That's  half  so  fair  as  thou  art. 
The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades  and  fa's. 

And  art  can  ne'er  renew  it ; 
But  worth  and  truth  eternal  youth 

Will  give  to  Polly  Stewart. 


May  he  whose  arms  shall  fauld  thy  charms 

Possess  a  leal  and  true  heart ; 
To  him  be  given  to  ken  the  heaven 

He  grasps  in  Polly  Stewart. 
0  lovely  Polly  Stewart ! 

0  charming  Polly  Stewart! 
There's  ne'er  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May 

That's  half  so  sweet  as  thou  art. 


CLXV. 

THE    HIGHLAND    LADDIE. 

Tune — "  If  thou'ltplay  me  fair  play." 

[A  long  and  wearisome  ditty,  called  "  The  Highlan4 
Lad  and  Lowland  Lassie,"  which  Burns  compressed  int< 
these  stanzas,  for  Johnson's  Museum.l 

I. 

The  bonniest  lad  that  e'er  I  saw, 

Bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie, 
Wore  a  plaid,  and  was  fu'  braw, 

Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 
On  his  head  a  bonnet  blue, 

Bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie ; 
His  royal  heart  was  firm  and  true, 

Bonnie  HighlanCf  laddie. 

II. 

Trumpets  sound,  and  cannons  roar, 

Bonnie  lassie.  Lowland  lassie  ; 
And  a'  the  hills  wi'  echoes  roar, 

Bonnie  Lowland  lassie. 
Glory,  honour,  now  invite, 

Bonnie  lassie.  Lowland  lassie, 
For  freedom  and  my  king  to  fight, 

Bonnie  Lowland  lassie. 


The  sun  a  backward  course  shall  xke, 

Bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie, 
Ere  aught  thy  manly  courage  shake, 

Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 
Go,  for  yourself  procure  renown, 

Bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie ; 
And  for  your  lawful  king,  his  crown* 

Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 


270                                    THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

CLXVI. 

the  Nith  to  the  Dee :  but  to  the  Dee,  if  the  poet  Bpok3  U 

his  own  person,  no  such  influences  could  belong.] 

ANNA,   THY  CHARMS. 

Tune — "  Bonnie  Mary." 

I. 
To  thee,  lov'd  Nith,  thy  gladsome  plains, 

[The  heroine  of  this  short,  sweet  song  is  unknown ;  it 

Where  late  wi'  careless  thought  I  rang'd. 

was  inserted  in  the  third  edition  of  his  Poems.] 

Though  prest  wi'  care  and  sunk  in  woe. 

Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire, 

To  thee  I  bring  a  heart  unchang'd. 

And  waste  my  soul  with  care ; 

But  ah  !  how  bootless  to  admire, 

II. 

When  fated  to  despair ! 

I  love  thee,  Nith,  thy  banks  and  traes, 

Yet  in  thy  presence,  lovely  fair, 

Tho'  mem'ry  there  my  bosom  tear  ; 

To  hope  may  be  forgiv'n ; 

For  there  he  rov'd  that  brake  my  heart. 

For  sure  'twere  impious  to  despair, 

Yet  to  that  heart,  ah !  still  how  dear  I 

So  much  in  sight  of  Heav'n. 

CLXIX. 

CLXVll. 

BANNOCKS   0'   BARLEY. 

CASSILLIS'   BANKS. 

Tune—"  The  Killogie." 

Tune — [unknown.  ] 

["  This  song  is  in  the  Museum,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas, 

[It  is  supposed  that  "  Highland  Mary,"  who  lived 
jometirae  on  Cassillis's  banks,  is  the  heroine  of  these 

"  but  without  Burns's  name."   Burns  took  up  an  old  song, 
and  letting  some  of  the  old  words  stand,  infused  a  Jacobite 

verses.] 

spirit  into  it,  wrote  it  out,  and  sent  it  to  the  Museum.] 

I. 
Now  bank  an'  brae  are  claith'd  in  green, 

I. 

Bannocks  o'  bear  meal. 

An'  scatter'd  cowslips  sweetly  spring ; 

Bannocks  o'  barley ; 

By  Girvan's  fairy-haunted  stream, 

Here's  to  the  Highlandman's 

The  birdies  flit  on  wanton  wing. 

Bannocks  o'  barley. 

To  Cassillis'  banks  when  e'ening  fa's, 

Wha  in  a  brulzie 

There  wi'  my  Mary  let  me  flee. 

Will  first  cry  a  parley  ? 

There  catch  her  ilka  glance  of  love. 

Never  the  lads  wi' 

The  bonnie  blink  o'  Mary's  e'e ! 

The  bannocks  o'  barley. 

II. 

The  chield  wha  boasts  o'  warld's  walth 

II. 

Bannocks  o'  bear  meal. 

Is  aften  laird  o'  meikle  care  ; 

Bannocks  o'  barley ; 

But  Mary  she  is  a'  my  ain — 

Here's  to  the  lads  wi' 

Ah  !   fortune  canna  gie  me  mair. 

The  bannocks  o'  barley. 

Then  let  me  range  by  Cassillis'  banks. 

Wha  in  his  wae-days 

Wi'  her,  the  lassie  dear  to  me, 

Were  loyal  to  Charlie  ? 

And  catch  her  ilka  glance  o'  love, 

Wha  but  the  lads  wi' 

The  bonnie  blink  o'  Mary's  e'e  I 

The  bannocks  o'  barley  ? 

CLXVIII. 

CLXX. 

TO   THEE,    LOVED  NITH. 

HEE   BALOU. 

Tune — [unknown.  ] 

Tune—"  The  Highland  Balou." 

[There  are  several  variations  extant  of  these  verses, 

["Published  in  the  Musical  Museum,"  says  Sir  Harris 

uid  among  others  one  which  transfers  the  praise  from 

Nicolas,  "  but  without  the  name  of  the  author."    It  is  aa 

OF   KOBEBT   BUBNS.                                       271    ] 

•Id  strain,  eked  out  and  amended  by  Burns,  and  sent  to 

CLXxn. 

the  Museum  in  liis  own  handwriting.] 

T 

HERE'S   HIS   HEALTH   IN  WATER. 

Hee  balou  !  my  sweet  wee  Donald, 

Tune — "  The  job  of  journey-work.'^ 

■■           Picture  o'  the  great  Clanronald ; 

TBurns  took  the  hint  of  this  song  from  an  older  and  lesa 

Hr           Brawlie  kens  our  wanton  chief 

decorous  strain,  and  wrote  these  words,  it  has  been  said 

in  humorous  allusion  to  the  condition  in  which  Jeac  Ar 

Wha  got  my  young  Highland  thief. 

mour  found  herself  before  marriage ;  as  if  Burns  could 
be  capable  of  anything  so  insulting.    The  words  are  ia 

II. 

the  Museum.] 

Leeze  me  on  thy  bonnie  craigie, 

Altho'  my  back  be  at  the  wa', 

An'  thou  live,  thou'll  steal  a  naigie : 

An'  tho'  he  be  the  fautor ; 

Travel  the  country  thro'  and  thro', 

Altho'  my  back  be  at  the  wa'. 

And  bring  hame  a  Carlisle  cow. 

Yet  here's  his  health  in  water ! 
0 !  wae  gae  by  his  wanton  sides. 

III. 

Sae  brawlie  he  could  flatter  ; 

Thro'  the  Lawlands,  o'er  the  border. 

Till  for  his  sake  I'm  slighted  sair, 

Weel,  my  babie,  may  thou  furder : 

And  dree  the  kintra  clatter. 

Herry  the  louus  o'  the  laigh  countree. 

But  tho'  my  back  be  at  the  wa'. 

Syne  to  the  Highlands  hame  to  me. 

And  tho'  he  be  the  fautor ; 
But  tho'  my  back  be  at  the  wa*. 
Yet  here's  his  health  in  water  I 

CLXXI. 

WAE   IS   MY  HEART. 

OLXxin. 

Tune — "  Waeis  my  hearV^ 

MY  PEGGY'S   FACE. 

[Composed,  it  is  said,  at  the  request  of  Clarke,  the 
musician,  who  felt,  or  imagined  he  felt,  some  pangs  of 

Tune—  "  My  Peggy's  Face^ 

heart  for  one  of  the  loveliest  young  ladies  in  Nithsdale, 

[Composed  in  honour  of  Miss  Margaret  Chalmers,  after 

Phillis  M'Mnrdo.] 

wards  Mrs.  Lewis  Hay,  one  of  the  wisest,  and,  it  is  said, 
the  wittiest  of  all  the  poet's  lady  correspondents.    Burns, 

I. 

in  the  note  in  which  he  communrcated  it  to  Johnson,  said 

Wae  is  mj  heart,  and  the  tear's  in  my  e'e ; 

he  had  a  strong  private  reason  for  wishing  it  to  apj-«ai 

Lang,  lani5,  joy's  been  a  stranger  to  me ; 

in  the  second  volume  of  the  Museum.] 

Forsaken  and  friendless,  my  burden  I  bear. 

I. 

And  the  sweet  voice  of  pity  ne'er  sounds  in  my 

My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form. 

ear. 

The  frost  of  hermit  age  might  warm ; 

11. 

My  Peggy's  worth,  my  Peggy's  mind, 

Love,  thou  hast  pleasures,  and  deep  hae  I  loved ; 

Might  charm  the  first  of  human  kind. 

Love,  thou  hast  sorrows,  and  sair  hae  I  proved ; 

I  love  my  Peggy's  angel  air, 

But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds  in  my 

Her  face  so  truly,  heav'nly  fair, 

breast. 

Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art. 

I  can  fe^l  by  its  throbbings  will  soon  be  at  rest 

But  I  adore  my  Peggy's  heart 

III. 
0,  if  I  were  happy,  where  happy  I  hae  been, 

II. 

The  lily's  hue,  the  rose's  dye. 

Down  by  yon  stream,  and  yon  bonnie   castle 

The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye ; 

green; 

Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway  ? 

For  there  he  is  wand'ring,  and  musing  on  me, 

Who  but  knows  they  all  decay ! 

Wha  w*c!  soon  dry  the  tear  frae  his  PhilUs's  e'e. 

The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear, 
The  gen'rous  purpose,  nobly  dear. 

The  gentle  look,  that  rage  disarms — 

These  are  all  immortal  charms. 

,,  ,1 

272 


THE   POETICAL   WOKKS 


CLXXIV. 

GLOOMY  DECEMBER. 

Tune—"  Wandering  Willie." 

[These  verses  were,  it  is  said,  inspired  by  Clarinda, 
and  must  be  taken  as  a  record  of  his  feelings  at  parting 
witli  one  dear  to  him  to  the  latest  moments  of  existence 
— the  Mrs.  Mac  of  many  a  toast,  both  in  serious  and  fes- 
tive hours.] 

I. 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December! 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care : 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  remember, 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh !  ne'er  to  meet  mair. 
Fond  lovers'  parting  is  sweet  painful  pleasure, 

Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting  hour ; 
But  the  dire  feeling,  0  farewell  for  ever ! 

Is  anguish  unmingled,  and  agony  pure. 


Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the  forest, 

'Till  the  last  leaf  o'  the  summer  is  flown. 
Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom. 

Since  my  last  hope  and  last  comfort  is  gone! 
Still  as  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 

Still  shall  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care ; 
For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  remem- 
ber. 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh !  ne'er  to  meet  mair. 


CLXXV. 

MY  LADY'S  GOWN,  THERE'S  GAIRS 
UPON'T. 

Tune — "  Gregg's  Pipes." 

[Most  of  this  song  is  from  the  pen  of  Burns:  he  cor- 
rected the  improprieties,  and  infused  some  of  his  own 
lyric  genius  into  the  old  strain?  and  printed  the  result  in 
the  Museum.] 

I. 

My  lady's  gown,  there's  gairs  upon't. 
And  gowden  flowers  sae  rare  upon't; 
Bnt  Jenny's  jimps  and  jirkinet. 
My  lord  thinks  meikle  mair  upon't. 
My  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane. 
But  hounds  or  hawks  wi'  him  are  nane ; 
By  Colin's  cottage  lies  his  game. 
If  Colin's  Jenny  be  at  hame. 


My  lady's  white,  my  lady's  red, 
And  kith  and  kin  o'  Cassillis'  blude : 


But  her  ten-pund  lands  o'  tocher  gujd 
Were  a'  the  charms  his  lordship  lo'ed. 

III. 
Out  o'er  yon  muir,  out  o'er  yon  moss, 
Whare  gor-cocks  thro'  the  heather  pass 
There  wons  auld  Colin's  bonnie  lass, 
A  lily  in  a  wilderness. 

IV. 

Sae  sweetly  move  her  genty  limbs, 
Like  music  notes  o'  lovers'  hymns: 
The  diamond  dew  is  her  een  sae  blue, 
Where  laughing  love  sae  wanton  swims 

V. 

My  lady's  dink,  my  lady's  drest. 
The  flower  and  fancy  o'  the  west; 
But  the  lassie  that  a  man  lo'es  best, 
0  that's  the  lass  to  make  him  blest. 
My  lady's  gown,  there's  gairs  upon't, 
And  gowden  flowers  sae  rare  upon't ; 
But  Jenny's  jimps  and  jirkinet. 
My  lord  thinks  meikle  mair  upon't. 


CLXXVI. 
AMANG  THE   TREES. 

Tune — "  The  King  of  France^  he  rade  a  rac* 

[Burns  wrote  these  verses  in  scorn  of  those,  and  •«xw 
are  many,  who  prefer 

"  The  capon  craws  and  queer  ha  ha's  !" 
of  emasculated  Italy  to  the  original  and  delicious  ».-ti, 
Highland  and  Lowland,  of  old  Caledonia:  the  song  t^  % 
fragment— the  more's  the  pity.] 

I. 

Amanq  the  trees,  where  humming  bees 

At  buds  and  flowers  were  hinging,  0, 
Auld  Caledon  drew  out  her  drone. 

And  to  her  pipe  was  singing,  0  ; 
'Twas  pibroch,  sang,  strathspey,  or  reels. 

She  dirl'd  them  aff  fu'  clearly,  0, 
When  there  cam  a  yell  o'  foreign  squeels. 

That  dang  her  tapsalteerie,  0. 


Their  capon  craws  and  queer  ha  ha's. 

They  made  our  lugs  grow  eerie,  0 ; 
The  hungry  bike  did  scrape  and  pike^ 

'Till  we  were  wae  and  weary,  0 ; 
But  a  royal  ghaist  wha  ance  was  cas'd 

A  prisoner  aughteen  year  awa, 
He  fir'd  a  fiddler  in  the  north 

That  dang  them  tapsalteerie,  0. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        273 

CLXXVII. 

CLXXVIII. 

THE   GOWDEN  LOCKS   OF   ANNA. 

MY  AIN   KIND   DEARIE   0. 

Tnne^"  Banks  of  Banna." 

[This  is  the  first  song  composed  by  Bums  for  the 

["Anne  with  the  golden  locks,"  one  of  the  attendant 

national  collection  of  Thomson  :  it  was  written  in  Octo- 

maidens in  Biirns's  liowff,  in  Dumfries,  was  very  fair  and 

ber,  1792.    <'  On  reading  over  the  Lea-rig."  he  says,  "  I 

very  tractable,  and,  as  may  be  surmised  from  the  song, 

immediately  set  about  trying  my  hand  on  it,  and,  after 

had  other  pretty  ways  to  render  herself  agreeable  to  the 

all,  I  could  make  nothing  more  of  it  than  the  followinjf." 

customers  than  the  serving  of  wine.    Burns  recommended 

The  first  and  second  verses  were  only  sent :  Burns  ac'de4 

this  song  to  Thomson;  and  one  of  his  editors  makes  him 

the  third  and  last  verse  in  December.] 

■ay,  "  I  think  this  is  one  of  the  best  love-songs  I  ever 

composed,"  but  these  are  not  the  words  of  Burns ;  this 

I. 

contradiction  is  made  openly,  lest  it  should  be  thought 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star 

that  the  bard  had  the  bad  taste  to  prefer  this  strain  to 

Tells  bugh tin-time  is  near,  my  jo ; 

dozens  of  others  more  simple,  more  impassioned,  and 
aoore  natural.] 

And  owsen  frae  the  furrow'd  field 

Return  sae  dowf  and  weary,  0 ! 

I. 

Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks  ' 

Yestreen  I  had  a  pint  o'  wine, 

Wi'  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo ; 

A  place  where  body  saw  na' ; 

I'll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig. 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  o'  mine 

My  aia  kind  dearie  0 ! 

The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 

The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness 

II. 

Rejoicing  o'er  his  manna, 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour. 

Was  naething  to  my  hinny  bliss 

I'd  rove,  and  ne'er  be  eerie,  0  ; 

Upon  the  lips  of  Anna. 

If  thro'  that  glen  I  gaed  to  thee. 

My  ain  kind  dearie  0  ! 

II. 

Altho'  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wild, 

Ye  monarchs  tak  the  east  and  west, 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  wearie,  0, 

Frae  Indus  to  Savannah  I 

I'd  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

Gie  me  within  my  straining  grasp 

My  ain  kind  dearie  0  ! 

The  melting  form  of  Anna. 

There  I'll  despise  imperial  charms, 

III. 

An  empress  or  sultana, 

The  hunter  lo'es  the  morning  sun. 

While  dying  raptures  in  her  arms 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo; 

I  give  and  take  with  Anna ! 

At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen. 

Alang  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo  ; 

III. 

Gie  me  the  hour  o'  gloamin  gray. 

Awa,  thou  flaunting  god  o'  day ! 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheery,  0, 

Awa,  thou  pale  Diana ! 

To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-ring, 

Ilk  star  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  0 ! 

When  I'm  to  meet  my  Anna. 

Come,  in  thy  raven  plumage,  night ! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  withdrawn  a' ; 

And  bring  an  angel  pen  to  write 

My  transports  wi'  my  Anna  ! 

CLXXIX. 

IV. 

TO   MARY  CAMPBELL.       ' 

The  kirk  an'  state  may  join  and  tell — 

To  do  sic  things  I  maunna  : 
The  kirk  and  state  may  gang  to  hell, 

['<In  my  very  early  years,"  says  Bums  to  Thomson, 

"  when  I  was  thinking  of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  I 
took  the  following  farewell  of  a  dear  girl.    You  must 

And  I'll  gae  to  my  Anna. 

know  that  all  ray  earlier  love-songs  were  the  breathinga 

She  is  the  sunshine  of  my  e'e. 

of  ardent  passion,  and  though  it  might  have  been  easy  in 

To  live  but  her  I  canna: 

after  times  to  have  given  them  a  polish,  yet  that  polish. 

Hid  I  on  earth  but  wishes  three. 
The  first  should  be  my  Anna. 
18 

to  me,  would  have  defaced  the  legend  of  ray  heart,  so 

I  For  "  scented  birks,"  in  some  copies,  «'  buken  bud«  » 

'274                                   THE    POETICAL   WORKS 

faithfully  inscribed  on  them.    Their  uncouth  simplicit7 

III. 

was,  as  they  say  of  wines,  their  race."    The  heroine  ot 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing. 

this  early  composition  was  Highland  Mary.] 

I. 

She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing. 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

And  leave  old  Scotia's  shore  ? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

IV. 

Across  th'  Atlantic's  roar  ? 

The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 

The  warstle  and  the  care  o't ; 

II. 

Wi'  her  I'll  blythely  bear  it, 

0  sweet  grows  the  lime  and  the  orange, 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

And  the  apple  on  the  pice; 

But  a'  the  charms  o'  the  Indies 
Can  never  equal  thine. 

III. 

CLXXXI. 

I  hae  sworn  hy  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 

BONNIE    LESLEY. 

I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be  true ; 

And  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me 

[«I  have  just,"  says  Burns  to  Thomson,  "  been  look 

When  I  forget  my  vow ! 

ing  over  the  '  Collier's  bonnie  Daughter,'  and  if  the  fol 
lowing  rhapsody,  which  I  composed  the  other  day,  on  a 

cliarming  Ayrshire  girl ,  Miss  Leslie  Baillie,  as  she  passad 

IV. 

through  this  place  to  England,  will  suit  your  taste  better 

0  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 

than   the  Collier  Lassie,  fall  on  and  welcome."    Thii 

And  plight  me  your  lily  white  hand ; 

lady  was  soon  afterwards  married  to  Mr.  Cuming,  of 
Logie.] 

0  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 

Before  I  leave  Scotia's  strand. 

I. 

0  SAW  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

V. 

As  she  ga'ed  o'er  the  border? 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join  ; 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us  ! 

The  hour  and  the  moment  o'  time  ! 

II. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her. 

And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 
For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is. 

CLXXX. 

And  never  made  anither ! 

THE   WINSOME   WEE    THING. 

III. 

[These  words  were  wri'ten  for  Thomson:   or  rather 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 

made  extempore.    "I  might  give  you  something  more 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee: 

profound,"  says  the  poet,  "  yet  it  might  not  suit  the 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 

liglit-horse  gallop  of  the  air,  so  well  as  this  random 

The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

eliiJt."] 

I. 

IV. 

She  is  a  win&^me  wee  thing, 

The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee. 

She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face. 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

And  say,  "  I  canna  wrang  thee." 

II. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer. 

V. 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 

I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer ; 

Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee : 

And  niest  my  heart  I'll  wear  her 

Thou'rt  like  themselves  so  lovely, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

1 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Oi^'   ilOBEKT   BURNS. 


27o 


Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie ; 
That  we  may  brag,  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 


CLXXXII. 
HIGHLAND    MARY. 

Tune— "  Katherine  Offie." 

[Mary  Campbell,  of  whose  worth  and  beauty  Burns 
nas  sung  with  such  deep  feeling,  was  the  daughter  of  a 
mariner,  who  lived  in  Greenock.  She  became  acquainted 
with  the  poet  while  on  service  at  the  castle  of  Mont- 
gomery, and  their  strolls  in  the  woods  and  their  roaming 
Irystes  only  served  to  deepen  and  settle  their  affections. 
Their  love  had  much  of  the  solemn  as  well  as  of  the  ro- 
mantic :  on  the  day  of  their  separation  they  plighted  their 
mutual  faith  by  the  exchange  of  Bibles  :  they  stood  with 
a  running-stream  between  them,  and  lifting  up  water  in 
their  hands  vowed  love  while  woods  grew  and  waters  ran. 
The  Bible  which  the  poet  gave  was  elegantly  bound : 
'  Ye  shall  not  swear  by  my  name  falsely,'  was  written 
in  the  bold  Mauchline  hand  of  Burns,  and  underneath 
was  his  name,  and  his  mark  as  a  freemason.  They  parted 
to  meet  no  more  :  Mary  Campbell  was  carried  off  sud- 
denly by  a  burning  fever,  and  the  first  intimation  which 
the  poet  had  of  her  fate,  was  when,  it  is  said,  he  visited 
her  friends  to  meet  her  on  her  return  from  Cowal,  whi- 
ther she  had  gone  to  make  arrangements  for  her  mar- 
riage. The  Bible  is  in  the  keeping  of  her  relations  :  we 
have  seen  a  lock  of  her  hair;  it  was  very  long  and  very 
bright,  and  of  a  hue  deeper  than  the  flaxen.  The  song 
was  written  for  Thomson's  work.] 


Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers. 

Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 
There  Simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  farewell 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk. 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life. 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary ! 


Wi'  mony  a  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace. 

Our  parting  was  fu  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 
But  oh !  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! — 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay. 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 


0  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly  ! 
And  clos'd  for  ay  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly — 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary ' 


CLxxxin. 

AULD   ROB   MORRIS. 

[The  starting  lines  of  this  song  are  from  one  of  no  utcie 
merit  in  Ramsay's  collection  :  the  old  strain  is  sarcastic  ; 
the  new  strain  is  tender :  it  was  written  for  Thomson.l 

I. 

There's   auld   Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon 

glen. 
He's  the  king  o'  guid  fellows  and  wale  of  auld 

men ; 
He  has  gowd  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen  and 

kine. 
And  ae  bonnie  lassie,  his  darling  and  mine. 


She's  fresh  as  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May . 
She's  sweet  as  the  ev'ning  amang  the  new  hay ; 
As  blythe  and  as  artless  as  the  lamb  on  the  lea, 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  e'e. 


But  oh!  she's  an  heiress, — auld  Robin's  a  laird, 
And  my  daddie  has  nought  but  a  cot-house  and 

yard; 
A  wooer  like  me  maunna  hope  to  come  speed ; 
The  wounds  I  must  hide  that  will  soon  be  my 

dead. 


276 


THE    POETICAL   WOllKS 


The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight  brings  me 

nane ; 
The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is  gane : 
I  wander  my  lane  like  a  night-troubled  ghaist, 
And  I  sigh  as  my  heart  it  wad  burst  in  my 

breast. 

V. 

0  had  she  but  been  of  a  lower  degree, 

1  then  might  hae  hop'd  she  wad  smil'd  upon 

me! 
0,  how  past  descriving  had  then  been  my  bliss, 
As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  express ! 


CLXXXIV. 
DUNCAN    GRAY. 


[This  Duncan  Gray  of  Burns,  has  nothing  in  common 
with  the  wild  old  song  of  that  name,  save  the  first  line,  and 
a  part  of  the  third,  neither  has  it  any  share  in  the  senti- 
ments of  an  earlier  strain,  with  the  same  title,  by  the 
same  hand.    It  was  written  for  the  work  of  Thomson.] 

I. 
Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 
On  blythe  yule  night  when  we  were  fou, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 
Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 


Duncan  fleech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 

Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  and  blin', 

Spak  o'  lowpin  o'er  a  linn ; 


Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

II. 

This  warld's  wealth  when  I  think  on, 

III. 

It's  pride,  and  a'  the  lave  o't — 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 

Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 

That  he  should  be  the  slave  o't ! 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

III. 

Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 

Her  een  sae  bonnie  blue  betray 

For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  ? 

How  she  repays  my  passion ; 

She  may  gae  to — France  for  me  ! 

But  prudence  is  her  o'erword  ay, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 
Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grew  heal. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings : 
And  0,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things  I 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 


Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't; 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath ; 
Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 


CLXXXV. 

0  POORTITH   CAULD. 

Tune — "  /  had  a  horse.** 

[Jean  Lonmer,  the  Chloris  and  the  "  Lassie  with  tin 
lint-white  locks"  of  Burns,  was  the  heroine  of  this  ex- 
quisite lyric  :  she  was  at  that  time  very  young ;  hel 
shape  was  fine,  and  her  "dimpled  cheek  and  cherry 
mou"  will  be  long  remembered  in  Nithsdale.] 


0  POORTITH  cauld,  and  restless  love, 

Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye  ; 
Yet  poortith  a'  I  could  forgive, 
An'  twere  na'  for  my  Jeanie. 

0  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have, 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining? 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 
Depend  on  fortune's  shining  ? 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        277    ] 

IV. 

CLXXXVII. 

0  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

LORD  GREGORY. 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 

0  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 
And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 

[Dr.  Wolcot  wrote  a  Lord  Gregory  for  Thomson'! 

collection,  in  imitation  of  which  Burns  wrote  his,  and 

the  Englishman  complained,  with   an  oath,   that    the 

Scotchman  sought  to  rob  liim  of  the  merit  of  his  compo- 

V. 

sition.    Wolcot's  song  was,  indeed,  written  first,  bu* 

they  are  both  but  imitations  of  that  most  exquifite  old  ba.- 

How  blest  the  humble  cotter's  fate !» 

iad,  '*  Fair  Annie  of  Lochryan,"  which  neither  Wo. cot 

He  wooes  his  simple  dearie  ; 

nor  Burns  valued  as  it  deserved :  it  far  Burpasses  toth 

The  silly  bogles,  wealth  and  state, 

their  songs.] 

Can  never  make  them  eerie. 

I. 

0  why  should  Fate  sic  pleasure  have, 

0  MIRK,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour, 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining  ? 

And  loud  the  tempest's  roar ; 

Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 

A  waefu'  wanderer  seeks  thy  tow'r, 

Depend  on  Fortune's  shining  ? 

Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door ! 

II. 
An  exile  frae  her  father's  ha'. 
And  a'  for  loving  thee ; 

At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw. 

CLXXXVI. 

If  love  it  may  na  be. 

GALLA   WATER. 

III. 

["  Galla  Water"  is  an  improved  version  of  an  earlier 

Lord  Gregory,  mind'st  thou  not  the  grove 

long  by  Burns  :  but  both  soi^s  owe  some  of  their  attrac- 

By bonnie  Irwin-side, 

tions  to  an  older  strain,  which  the  exquisite  air  has  made 

Where  first  I  own'd  that  virgin-lov« 

popular  over  the  world.    It  was  written  for  Thomson.] 

I  lang,  lang  had  denied  ? 

I. 

There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 

IV. 

How  often  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow 

That  wander  thro'  the  blooming  heather  ; 

Thou  wad  for  ay  be  mine  ; 

But  Yarrow  braes  nor  Ettrick  shaws 

And  my  fond  heart,  itsel'  sae  true, 

Can  match  the  lads  o'  Galla  Water. 

It  ne'er  mistrust  id  thine. 

II. 

Bat  there  is  ane,  a  secret  ane. 

V. 

Hard  is  thy  heart.  Lord  Gregory, 

Aboon  them  a'  I  lo'e  him  better  ; 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast — 

And  I'll  be  his,  and  he'll  be  mine, 

Thou  dart  of  heaven  that  flashest  by, 

The  bonnie  lad  o'  Galla  Water. 

0  wilt  thou  give  me  rest ! 

III. 

VI. 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above. 

iltho'  his  daddie  was  nae  laird. 

Your  willing  victim  see ! 

And  tho'  I  hae  nae  meikle  tocher ; 

But  spare  and  pardon  my  fause  love. 

f  et  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love, 

His  wrangs  to  heaven  and  me  f 

We'll  tent  our  flocks  by  Galla  Water. 

IV. 

ft  ne'er  was  wealth,  it  ne'er  was  wealth. 

CLXXXVIII. 

That  coft  contentment,  peace,  or  pleasure  ; 

MARY  MORISON. 

The  bands  and  bliss  o'  mutual  love. 

0  that's  the  chiefest  warld's  treasure  I 

Tune—*'  Bide  ye  t/et." 

["The  gong  prefixed,"  observes  Burns  to  Thomson 
«« is  one  of  my  juvenile  works.    I  leave  it  in  your  hands 

>««Tne  wild- wood  Indian's  Fate,"  in  the  original  MS. 

278 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


1  do  not  think  it  very  remarkable  either  for  its  merits  or 
Its  demerits."  "  Of  all  the  productions  of  Burns,"  says 
Hazlitt,  '<  the  pathetic  and  serious  love-songs  which  he 
has  left  behind  him,  in  the  manner  of  the  old  ballads,  are, 
perhaps,  those  which  take  the  deepest  and  most  lasting 
hold  of  the  mind.  Such  are  the  lines  to  Mary  Morison." 
The  song  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  on  one  of  a 
family  of  Morisons  at  Mauchline.] 


0  Maby,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour  ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  my  see 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun  ; 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison  I 


Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 

The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  or  saw : 
Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 


0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


CLXXXIX. 

WANDERING   WILLIE. 

[first  version.] 

[The  idea  of  this  song  is  taken  from  verses  of  the  same 
aarao  published  by  Herd  :  the  heroine  is  supposed  to 
have  been  the  accomplished  Mrs.  Riddel.  Erskine  and 
Thomson  sat  in  judgment  upon  it,  and,  like  true  critics, 
squeezed  much  of  the  natural  and  original  spirit  out  of 
it.  Burns  approved  of  their  alterations ;  but  he  approved, 
no  doul  t,  in  bitterness  of  spirit.] 

I. 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Now  tired  with  wandering,  haud  awa  hame ; 


Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ae  only  dearie. 

And  tell  me  thou  bring'st  me  my  Willie  th* 


Loud  blew  the  cauld  winter  winds  at  our  part- 
ing; 
It  was  na  the  blast  brought  the  tear  in  my 
e'e; 
Now  welcome  the   simmer,  and  welcome  my 
Willie, 
The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

III. 

Ye  hurricanes,  rest  in  the  cave  o'  your  slumbers ! 

0  how  your  wild  horrors  a  lover  alarms ! 
Awaken,  ye  breezes,  row  gently,  ye  billows, 

And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms. 


But  if  he's  forgotten  his  faithfulest  Nannie, 
0  still  flow  between  us,  thou  wide  roaring 
main  ; 

May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie's  my  ain. 


cxc. 


WANDERING  WILLIE. 

[last  version.] 

[This  is  the  "  Wandering  Willie"  as  altered  by  Er- 
skine and  Thomson,  and  approved  by  Burns,  after  reject- 
ing several  of  their  emendations.  The  changes  were 
made  chiefly  with  the  view  of  harmonizing  the  wordi 
with  the  music — an  Italian  mode  of  mending  the  harmony 
of  the  human  voice.] 


Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  haud  awa  hame ; 

Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ain  only  dearie. 

Tell  me  thou  bring'st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 


Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our  part- 
ing, 

Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  e'e  , 
Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my  Willie, 

The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


?7& 


Rest,  ye  -wild  storms,  in  the  cave  of  your  slum- 
bers, 
How  your  dread  howling  a  lover  alarms ! 
Wauken,  ye  breezes,  row  gently,  ye  billows, 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms. 


But  oh,  if  he's  faithless,  and  minds  na  his 
Nannie, 

Flow  still  between  us,  thou  wide  roaring  main ; 
May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie's  my  ain. 


CXCI. 
OPEN    THE   DOOR   TO   ME,    OH! 

[Written  for  Thomson's  collection :  the  first  version 
which  he  wrote  was  not  happy  in  its  harmony :  Burns 
altered  and  corrected  it  as  it  now  stands,  and  then  said, 
« I  do  not  know  if  this  song  be  really  mended."] 


OH,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  Oh  !^ 
Tho'  thou  has  been  false,  I'll  ever  prove  true, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  Oh ! 


Oauld  is  the  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek, 
But  caulder  thy  love  for  me.  Oh ! 

The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  heart, 
Is  nought  to  my  pains  frae  thee,  Oh ! 


The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  white  wave, 
And  time  is  setting  with  me,  Oh ! 

False  friends,  false  love,  farewell !  for  mair 
I'll  ne'er  trouble  them,  nor  thee.  Oh  I 


IT. 

She  has  open'd  the  door,  she  has  open'd  it  wide; 

She  sees  his  pale  corse  on  the  plain.  Oh ! 
My  true  love !  she  cried,  and  sank  down  by  his 
side. 

Never  to  rise  again.  Oh ! 

I  This  second  line  was  originally — *'  If  love  it  may  na 
be.  Oh  •" 


CXCII. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — ^'Bonnie  Dundee.'^ 

[Jessie  Staig,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  provost  o* 
Dumfries,  was  the  heroine  of  tliis  song.  She  bocnme  a 
wife  and  a  mother,  but  died  early  in  life :  she  is  still  af- 
fectionately remembered  in  her  native  place.] 

I. 
Teub  hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  o'  the 
Yarrow, 
And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  o'  th« 
Ayr, 
But  by  the  sweet  side  o'  the  Nith's  winding  river, 

Are  lovers  as  faithful,  and  maidens  as  fair : 
To  equal  young  Jessie  seek  Scotland  all  over ; 

To  equal  young  Jessie  you  seek  it  in  vain ; 
Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover, 
And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  the  chain 


0,  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy  morning, 

And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close ; 
But  in  the  fair  presence  o'  lovely  young  Jessie 

Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 
Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a  wizard  ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd  in  her  een  he  delivers  his  law : 
And  still  to  her  charms  she  alone  is  a  stranger— 

Her  modest  demeanour's  the  jewel  of  a' ! 


CXCIII. 

THE    POOR  AND  HONEST  SODGEK 

Air—"  The  Mill,  Mill,  0." 

[Bums,  it  is  said,  composed  this  song,  once  very  popu« 
lar,  on  hearing  a  maimed  soldier  relate  his  adventurea, 
at  Brownhill,  in  Nithsdale  :  it  was  published  by  Thom» 
son,  after  suggesting  some  alterations,  which  were  pro* 
perly  rejected.] 

I. 
When  wild  war's  deadly  blast  was  blawn, 

And  gentle  peace  returning, 
Wi'  mony  a  sweet  babe  fatherless. 

And  mony  a  widow  mourning ; 
I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field. 

Where  lang  I'd  been  a  lodger. 
My  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth, 

A  poor  and  honest  sodger. 


A  leal,  light  heart  was  in  my  breast, 
My  hand  tinstain'd  wi'  plunder ; 


280 


THE    JPO>.TiCAL    WORKS 


And  for  fair  Scotia,  hame  again, 
I  cheery  on  did  wander. 

I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  Coil, 
I  thought  upon  my  Nancy, 

I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile 
Tlat  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 


At  length  I  reach'd  the  bonny  glen, 

Where  early  life  I  sported ; 
I  pass'd  the  mill,  and  trysting  thorn, 

Where  Nancy  aft  I  courted : 
Wha  spTed  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  her  mother's  dwelling  ! 
And  turn'd  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 

That  in  my  een  was  swelling. 


Wi'  alter'd  voice,  quoth  I,  sweet  lass, 

Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn's  blossom, 
0 !  happy,  happy,  may  he  be 

That's  dearest  to  thy  bosom ! 
My  purse  is  light,  I've  far  to  gang. 

And  fain  wad  be  thy  lodger ; 
I've  serv'd  my  king  and  country  lang — 

Take  pity  on  a  sodger. 


6ae  wistfully  she  gaz'd  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  then  ever ; 
Quo'  she,  a  sodger  ance  I  lo'd, 

Forget  him  shall  I  never : 
Our  humble  cot,  and  hamely  fare, 

Ye  freely  shall  partake  it. 
That  gallant  badge — the  dear  cockade- 

Ye're  welcome  for  the  sake  o't. 


She  gaz'd — she  redden'd  like  a  rose — 

Syne  pale  like  onie  lily ; 
She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 

Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ? 
By  him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky — 

By  whom  true  love's  regarded, 
I  am  the  man ;  and  thus  may  still 

True  lovers  be  rewarded ! 


The  wars  are  o'er,  and  I'm  come  hame, 
And  find  thee  still  true-hearted ; 

Tho'  poor  in  gear,  we're  rich  in  love, 
And  mair  we'se  ne'er  be  parted. 


Quo'  she,  my  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 
A  mailen  plenish'd  fairly  ; 

And  come,  my  faithful  sodger  lad, 
Thou'rt  welcome  to  it  dearly ! 


For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main, 

The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor ; 
But  glory  is  the  sodger's  prize. 

The  sodger's  wealth  is  honour ; 
The  brave  poor  sodger  ne'er  despise, 

Nor  count  him  as  a  stranger ; 
Remember  he's  his  country's  stay, 

In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


CXCIV. 

MEG   0'   THE   MILL. 

Air — "  Hei/!  bonnie  lass,  will  you  lie  in  a  barrack  f" 

["Do  you  know  a  fine  air,"  Burns  asks  Thomson, 
April,  1793,  "  called  '  Jackie  Hume's  Lament  ?'  I  have 
a  song  of  considerable  merit  to  that  air  :  I'll  enclose  you 
both  song  and  tune,  as  I  have  them  ready  to  send  to  the 
Museum."  It  is  probable  that  Thomson  hked  these 
verses  too  well  to  let  them  go  willingly  from  his  hands  : 
Burns  touched  up  the  old  song  with  the  same  starling 
line,  but  a  less  delicate  conclusion,  aud  published  it  in 
the  Museum.] 

I. 

0  KEN  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 
An'  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 
She  has  gotten  a  coof  wi'  a  claute  o'  siller. 
And  broken  the  heart  o'  the  barley  Miller. 


The  Miller  was  strappin,  the  Miller  was  ruddy; 
A  heart  like  a  lord  and  a  hue  like  a  lady : 
The  Laird  was  a  widdiefu',  bleerit  knurl ; 
She's  left  the  guid-fellow  and  ta'en  the  churl. 


The  Miller  he  hecht  her  a  heart  leal  and  loving; 
The  Laird  did  address  her  wi'    matter   mair 

moving, 
A  fine  pacing  horse  wi'  a  clear  chained  bridle, 
A  whip  by  her  side  and  a  bonnie  side-saddle. 


0  wae  on  the  siller,  it  is  sae  prevailing  ; 
And  wae  on  the  love  that  is  fixed  on  a  mailen' 
A  tocher's  nae  word  in  a  true  lover's  parle. 
But  gie  me  my  love,  and  a  fig  for  the  warl  I 


OF  HUBERT  BURNS. 


281 


cxcv. 

BLYTHE    HAE   I   BEEN. 

Tnne—'** Lifffferam  Cosh." 

[Bums,  who  seldom  praised  his  own  compositions,  told 
Tliom*ia  iir  •^\:t3  work  he  wrote  it,  that  "  BIythe  hae 
I  been  o".  yon  hul,''  Avas  one  of  the  finest  songs  he  had 
ever  made  in  his  life,  and  composed  on  one  of  the  most 
lovely  women  in  the  world.  The  heroine  was  Miss  Les- 
.ey  BaiUie.] 

I. 
Blythe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill 

As  the  lambs  before  me ; 
Careless  ilka  thought  and  free 

As  the  breeze  flew  o'er  me. 
Now  nae  langer  sport  and  play, 
Mirth  or  sang  can  please  me ; 
Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy, 
Care  and  anguish  seize  me. 

II. 
Heavy,  heavy  is  the  task. 

Hopeless  love  declaring: 
Trembling,  I  dow  nocht  but  glow'r, 

Sighing,  dumb,  despairing! 
If  she  winna  ease  the  thraws 

In  my  bosom  swelling, 
Underneath  the  grass-green  sod 

Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 


CXCVI. 
LOGAN  WATER. 

["  Have  you  ever,  my  dear  sir,"  says  Burns  to  Thorn- 
son,  25th  June,  1793,  "  felt  your  bosom  ready  to  burst 
with  indignation  on  reading  of  those  mighty  villains  who 
divide  kingdom  against  kingdom,  desolate  provinces,  and 
lay  nations  waste,  out  of  the  wantonness  of  ambition,  or 
often  from  still  more  ignoble  passions  ?  In  a  mood  of 
this  kind  to-day  I  recollected  the  air  of  Logan  Water. 
If  I  have  done  anything  at  all  like  justice  to  my  feelings, 
the  following  song,  composed  in  three-quarters  of  an 
h  ,n;'8  meditation  in  my  elbow-chair,  ought  to  have  some 
merit."  The  poet  had  in  mind,  too,  during  this  poetic 
Bt,  the  beautiful  song  of  Logan-braes,  by  my  friend  John 
Mayne,  a  Nithsdale  poet.] 

I. 

0  LooAN,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide, 
That  day  I  was  my  Willie's  bride  ! 
And  years  synsyne  hae  o'er  us  run. 
Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 
But  now  thy  flow'ry  banks  appear 
Like  drumlie  winter,  dark  and  drear. 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes ! 


Again  the  merry  month  o'  May 

Has  made  our  hills  and  valleys  gay ; 

The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers, 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flowers ; 

Blythe  Morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye, 

And  Evening's  tears  are  teais  of  joy : 

My  soul,  delightless,  a'  surveys, 

While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

III. 
Within  yon  milk-white  hawthorn  bush, 
Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush ; 
Her  faithfu'  mate  will  share  her  toil, 
Or  wi'  his  song  her  cares  beguile : 
But  I,  wi'  my  sweet  nurslings  here, 
Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer, 
Pass  widow'd  nights  and  joyless  days, 
While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes 


0  wae  upon  you,  men  o'  state, 
That  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hate ! 
As  ye  make  mony  a  fond  heart  mourn, 
Sae  may  it  on  your  heads  return  I 
How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry  ?* 
But  soon  may  peace  bring  happy  days 
And  Willie  hame  to  Logan  braes ! 


cxcvn. 

THE  RED,   RED  ROSE. 

Air — '^  Huffhie  Graham.*' 

[There  are  snatches  of  old  song  so  exquisitely  fine 
that,  like  fractured  crystal,  they  cannot  be  mended  or 
eked  out,  without  showing  where  the  hand  of  the  re- 
storer has  been.  This  seems  the  case  with  the  first  verse 
of  this  song,  which  the  poet  found  in  Witherspoon,  and 
completed  by  the  addition  of  the  second  verse,  which  he 
felt  to  be  inferior,  by  desiring  Thomson  to  make  his  own 
the  first  verse,  and  let  the  other  follow,  whfch  wo-i  d 
conclude  the  strain  with  a  thought  as  beautiful  as  it  was 
original.] 

I. 
0  WEEK  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 

Wi*  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring; 
And  I,  a  bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing  I 

>  Originally — 

"  Ye  mind  na,  'mid  your  cruel  joys, 
Tlie  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cries  " 


'   282                                    THE   POETICAL   WORKS                                            j 

How  I  wad  mourn,  when  it  was  torn 

V. 

By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude  1 

He  gaed  wi'  Jeanie  to  the  tryste, 

But  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

He  danc'd  wi'  Jeanie  on  the  down  ; 

When  youthfu'  May  its  bloom  renewed. 

And,  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist. 

II. 

Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  was  stown 

0  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 

VI. 

That  groAvs  upon  the  castle  wa' ; 

As  in  the  bosom  o'  the  stream, 

And  I  mysel'  a  drap  o'  dew, 

The  moon-beam  dwells  at  dewy  e'en ; 

Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa'! 

Oh,  there  beyond  expression  blest, 

So  trembling,  pure,  was  tender  love 
Within  the  breast  o'  bonnie  Jean. 

I'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night ; 

Seal'd  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 

VII. 

Till  fley'd  awa  by  Phoebus'  light. 

And  now  she  works  her  mammie's  wark, 

And  ay  she  sighs  wi'  care  and  pain ; 

Yet  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be, 
Or  what  wad  mak  her  weel  again. 

cxcvni. 

VIII. 

But  did  na  Jeanie's  heart  loup  light, 

BONNIE  JEAN. 

And  did  na  joy  blink  in  her  e'e, 

[Jean  M'Murdo,  the  heroine  of  this  song,  the  eldest 

As  Robie  tauld  a  tale  of  love, 

daughter  of  John  M'Murdo  of  Drumianrig,  was,  both  in 

Ae  e'enin'  on  the  lily  lea  ? 

merit  and  look,  very  worthy  of  so  sweet  a  strain,  and 

justified  the  poet  from  the  charge  made  against  him  in 

the  West,  that  his  beauties  were  not  other  men's  beau- 

IX. 

ties.    In  the  M'Murdo  manuscript,  in  Burns's  handwrit- 

The sun  was  sinking  in  the  west. 

ing,  there  is  a  well-merited  compliment;  which  has  slipt 

The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove ; 

out  of  the  printed  copy  in  Thomson  : — 

<'  Thy  handsome  foot  thou  shalt  na  set 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest. 

In  barn  or  byre  to  trouble  thee."] 

And  whisper'd  thus  his  tale  o'  love  : 

1. 

Theee  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair, 

X. 

0  Jeanie  fair,  I  lo'e  thee  dear ; 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen. 

0  canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me ! 

When  a'  the  fairest  maids  were  met, 

Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie's  cot, 

The  fairest  maid  was  bonnie  Jean. 

And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi'  me  ? 

II. 
And  aye  she  wrought  her  mammie's  wark, 

XI. 

At  barn  or  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge. 

And  ay  she  sang  so  merrilie  : 

Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee ; 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells. 

And  tent  the  waving  corn  wi'  me. 

The  blithest  bird  upon  the  bush 

Had  ne'er  a  lighter  heart  than  she. 

III. 

But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 

XII. 

That  bless  the  little  lintwhite's  nest ; 

Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do  ? 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers, 

She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na : 

And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

At  length  she  blush'd  a  sweet  consent, 

IV. 

Young  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad, 
The  flower  and  pride  of  a'  the  glen ; 

And  love  was  ay  between  them  twa' 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye. 

And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


283 


CXCIX. 

PHILLIS   THE   FAIR. 

Tune — ^' Robin  Adair." 

[Tb.3  ladies  of  the  M'Murdo  family  were  graceful  and 
beautiful,  and  lucky  in  finding  a  poet  capable  of  record- 
ing tlieir  charms  in  lasting  strains.  The  heroine  of  this 
flon^  was  Phillis  M'Murdo  ;  a  favourite  of  the  poet.  The 
verses  were  composed  at  the  request  of  Clarke,  the  mu- 
sician, who  believed  himself  in  love  with  his  "  charming 
pupil."    She  laughed  at  the  presumptuous  fiddler.] 


While  larks  with  little  wing 

Fann'd  the  pure  air, 
Tasting  the  breathing  spring, 

Forth  I  did  fare : 
Gay  the  sun's  golden  eye 
Peep'd  o'er  the  mountains  high; 
Such  thy  morn !  did  I  cry, 

Phillis  the  fair. 


In  each  bird's  careless  song. 

Glad  I  did  share  ; 
While  yon  wild  flowers  among, 

Chance  led  me  there : 
Sweet  to  the  opening  day. 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray ; 
Such  thy  bloom  !  did  I  say, 

Phillis  the  fair. 


Down  in  a  shady  walk 
Doves  cooing  were, 

I  mark'd  the  cruel  hawk, 
Caught  in  a  snare : 

So  kind  may  fortune  be. 

Such  make  his  destiny ! 

He  who  would  injure  thee, 
Phillis  the  fair. 


CO. 

HAD  I  A  CAVE. 
Tune — *'  Robin  Adair.' 


words  were  written :  the  hero  of  the  lay  has  been  lonf 
dead ;  the  heroine  resides,  a  widow,  in  Edinburgh.] 


Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore. 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves'  dashing 
roar; 
There  would  I  weep  my  woes, 
There  seek  my  lost  repose, 

Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close, 
Ne'er  to  wake  more. 


Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare. 
All  thy  fond  plighted  vows — fleeting  as  air  I 
To  thy  new  lover  hie, 
Laugh  o'er  thy  perjury, 
Then  in  thy  bosom  try 
What  peace  is  there ! 


[Alexander  Cunningham,  on  whose  unfortunate  love- 
adventure  Burns  composed  this  song  for  Thomson,  vras 
a  jeweller  in  Kdinhurgh,  well  connected,  and  of  agreea- 
ble and  polished  manners.  The  story  of  his  faithless 
viistress  was  the  talk  of  Edinburgh,  in  1703,  when  these 


CCI. 

BY  ALLAN   STREAM. 

["  Bravo  !  say  I,"  exclaimed  Burns,  when  he  wrote 
these  verses  for  Thomson.  "  It  is  a  good  song.  Should 
you  think  so  too,  not  else,  you  can  set  the  music  to  it, 
and  let  the  other  follow  as  English  verses.  Autumn  is 
my  propitious  season ;  I  make  more  verses  in  it  than  all 
the  year  else."  The  old  song  of  "  U  my  love  Annie's 
very  bonnie,"  helped  the  muse  of  Burns  with  this  lyric] 


By  Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove 

While  Phoebus  sank  beyond  Benledi ; 
The  winds  were  whispering  through  the  grove. 

The  yellow  corn  was  waving  ready ; 
I  listened  to  a  lover's  sang. 

And  thought  on  youthfu'  pleasures  mony . 
And  aye  the  wild  wood  echoes  rang — 

0  dearly  do  I  lo'e  thee,  Annie  I 


0  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  make  it  eerie ; 
Nor  ever  sorrow  stain  the  hour, 

The  place  and  time  I  met  my  dearie ! 
Her  head  upon  my  throbbing  breast. 

She,  sinking,  said,  "I'm  thine  for  ever?* 
While  mony  a  kiss  the  seal  imprest. 

The  sacred  vow, — we  ne'er  should  sever. 


:84 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


The  haunt  o'  Spring's  the  primrose  brae, 

The  Simmer  joys  the  flocks  to  follow; 
How  cheery,  thro'  her  shortening  day, 

Is  Autumn,  in  her  weeds  o'  yellow  I 
But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart, 

Or  chain  the  soul  in  speechless  pleasure, 
Or  thro*  each  nerve  the  rapture  dart. 

Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom's  treasure  ? 


ocn. 

0  WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL  COME  TO  YOU. 

[In  one  of  the  variations  of  this  song  the  name  of  the 
heroine  is  Jeanie  :  the  song  itself  owes  some  of  the  senti- 
ments as  well  as  words  to  an  old  favourite  Nithsdale 
chant  of  the  same  name.  "Is  Whistle,  and  I'll  come 
to  you,  my  lad,"  Burns  inquires  of  Thomson,  "one  of 
your  airs?  I  admire  it  much,  and  yesterday  I  set  the 
following  verses  to  it."  The  poet,  two  years  afterwards, 
altered  the  fourth  line  thus: — 

"  Thy  Jeany  will  venture  wi'  ye,  my  lad," 
and  assigned  this  reason  :  "  In  fact,  a  fair  dame  at  whose 
Bhrine  I,  the  priest  of  the  Nine,  offer  up  the  incense  of 
Parnassus;  a  dame  whom  the  Graces  ha  e  attired  in 
witchcraft,  and  whom  the  Loves  have  armed  with  light- 
ning ;  a  fair  one,  herself  the  heroine  of  the  song,  insists 
on  the  amendment,  and  dispute  her  commands  if  you 
dare."] 


0  WHISTLE,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad, 
0  whistle,  and  111  come  to  you,  my  lad: 
Tho'  father  and  mither  and  a'  should  gae  mad, 
0  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 
But  warily  tent,  when  you  come  to  court  me, 
And  come  na  unless  the  back-yett  be  a-jee; 
Syne  up  the  back-stile  and  let  naebody  see. 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin'  to  me. 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin'  to  me. 


At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene'er  ye  meet  me, 
Gang  by  me  as  tho'  that  ye  car'd  na  a  flie ; 
But  steal  me  a  blink  o'  your  bonnie  black  e'e, 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin'  at  me. 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin'  at  me. 

III. 

Ay  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  me. 
And  whiles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a  wee  ; 
But  court  na  anither,  tho'  jokin'  ye  be. 
For  feac  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me. 
For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me. 


0  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad, 
0  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad : 
Tho'  father  and  mither  and  a'  should  gae  mad; 
0  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 


ccin. 

ADOWN  WINDING  NITH. 

["  Mr.  Clarke,"  says  Burns  to  Thomson,  «*  begs  you  U 
give  Miss  Phillis  a  corner  in  your  book,  as  she  is  a  par' 
ticular  flame  of  his.  She  is  a  Miss  Piiillis  M'.Murdo 
sister  to  'Bonnie  Jean;'  they  are  both  pupils  of  his.' 
This  lady  afterwards  became  Mrs.  Norman  Lockhart,  of 
Carnwath.] 

I. 

Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander, 

To  mark  the  sweet  flowers  as  they  spring ; 
Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander. 

Of  Phillis  to  muse  and  to  sing. 
Awa  wi'  your  belles  and  your  beauties, 

They  never  wi'  her  can  compare : 
Whaever  has  met  wi'  my  Phillis, 

Has  met  wi'  the  queen  o'  the  fair. 


The  daisy  amus'd  my  fond  fancy. 
So  artless,  so  simple,  so  wild ; 

Thou  emblem,  said  I,  o'  my  Phillis, 
For  she  is  simplicity's  child. 


The  rose-bud's  the  blush  o'  my  charmer. 
Her  sweet  balmy  lip  when  'tis  prest : 

How  fair  and  how  pure  is  the  lily, 
But  fairer  and  purer  her  breast. 


Yon  knot  of  gay  flowers  in  the  arbour, 
They  ne'er  wi'  my  Phillis  can  vie : 

Her  breath  is  the  breath  o'  the  woodbine. 
Its  dew-drop  o'  diamond,  her  eye. 


Her  voice  is  the  song  of  the  morning. 

That  wakes  thro'  the  green-spreading  grov^ 

When  Phoebus  peeps  over  the  mountains. 
On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love. 


But  beauty  how  frail  and  how  fleeting, 
The  bloom  of  a  fine  summer's  day  f 

While  worth  in  the  mind  o'  my  Phillis 
Will  flourish  without  a  decay. 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS. 


285 


Awa  wi*  your  belles  and  your  beauties, 
They  never  wi'  her  can  compare : 

Whaever  has  met  wi'  my  Phillis 
Has  met  wi'  the  queen  o'  the  fair. 


CCIV. 

COME,   LET  ME  TAKE  THEE. 

Air—"  Cauld  Kail." 

f Burns  composed  this  lyric  in  August,  1793,  and  tradi- 
tion says  it  was  produced  by  the  charms  of  Jean  Lorimer. 
"  That  tune,  Cauld  Kail,"  he  says  to  Thomson,  "  is  such 
a  favourite  of  yours,  that  I  once  more  roved  out  yester- 
day for  a  gloamin-shot  at  the  Muses;  when  the  Muse 
that  presides  over  the  shores  of  Nith,  or  rather  my  old 
inspiring,  dearest  nymph,  Coila,  whispered  me  the  fol- 
lowing."] 

I. 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast, 

And  pledge  we  ne'er  shall  sunder ; 
And  I  shall  spurn  as  vilest  dust 

The  warld's  wealth  and  grandeur : 
And  do  I  hear  my  Jeanie  own 

That  equal  transports  move  her  ? 
I  ask  for  dearest  life  alone. 

That  I  may  live  to  love  her. 


Thus  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  thy  charms, 

I  clasp  my  countless  treasure ; 
I'll  seek  nae  mair  o'  heaven  to  share, 

Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure : 
And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 

I  swear  I'm  thine  for  ever ! 
And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I  never. 


GOV. 
DAINTY  DAVIE. 

[From  the  old  song  of "  Daintie  Davie"  Burns  has 
borrowed  only  the  title  and  the  measure.  The  ancient 
■train  records  how  the  Rev.  David  Williamson,  to  escape 
the  pursuit  of  the  dragoons,  in  the  time  of  the  persecu- 
tion, was  hid,  by  the  devout  Lady  of  Cherrytrees,  in  the 
same  bed  with  her  ailmg  daughter.  The  divine  lived  to 
have  six  wives  beside  the  daughter  of  the  Lady  of  Cher- 
cytreea  and  other  children  besides  the  one  which  his 


hiding  from  the  dragoons  produced.  When  Charles  th« 
Second  was  told  of  the  adventure  and  its  upshot,  he  il 
said  to  have  exclaimed,  "  God's  fish  !  that  beats  me  anc 
the  oak :  the  man  ought  to  be  made  a  bishop. "J 


Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers. 
To  deck  her  gay,  green-spreading  bowers  j 
And  now  comes  in  my  happy  hours. 
To  wander  wi'  my  Davie. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 

Dai^jty  Davie,  dainty  Davie, 
There  I'll  spend  the  day  wi'  yon, 
My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 


The  crystal  waters  round  us  fa', 
The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a', 
The  scented  breezes  round  us  blaw, 
A  wandering  wi'  my  Davie. 


When  purple  morning  starts  the  haro. 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare. 
Then  thro'  the  dews  I  will  repair^ 
To  meet  my  faithfu'  Davio 


When  day,  expiring  in  the  west, 
The  curtain  draws  o'  nature's  rest, 
I  flee  to  his  arms  I  lo'e  best, 
And  that's  my  ain  dear  Davie. 
Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 

Bonnie  Davie,  dainty  Davie, 
There  I'll  spend  the  day  wi'  you, 
My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 


CCVI. 

BRUCE  TO  HIS  MEN  AT  BANNOCKBURN. 

[first  version.] 

Tune— "  JTey,  tuttie  taitie." 

[Syme  of  Ryedale  states  that  this  fine  ode  was  soni* 
posed  during  a  storm  of  rain  and  fire,  among  the  wilds  of 
Glenken  in  Galloway:  the  poet  himself  gives  an  accounl 
much  less  romantic.  In  speaking  of  the  air  to  Thomson, 
he  says,  '«  There  is  a  tradition  which  1  have  met  with  in 
many  places  in  Scotland,  that  it  was  Robert  Bruce'a 
march  at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn.  This  thought,  in 
my  solitary  wanderings,  warmed  me  to  a  pitch  of  entha 
siasm  on  the  theme  of  liberty  and  independence,  which! 
threw  into  a  kind  of  Scottish  ode,  fitted  to  the  air,  that 


286 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


one  might  suppose  to  be  the  royal  Scot's  address  to  his 
heroic  followers  on  that  eventful  morning."  It  was 
written  in  September,  1793.] 


Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victorie ! 


Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour : 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  pow'r — 
Chains  and  slaverie ! 


Wha  will  be  a  traitor-knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 


Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me ! 


By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free ! 


Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow ! — 
Let  us  do  or  die ! 


*  CCVII. 

BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT  BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY. 

[second  version.] 

[Thomson  acknowledged  the  charm  which  this  martial 
*nd  national  ode  had  for  him,  but  he  disliked  the  air,  and 
proposed  to  substitute  that  of  Lewis  Gordon  in  its  place. 
But  Lewis  Gordon  required  a  couple  of  sjilables  more 
fei  every  fourth  line,  which  loaded  the  verse  with  exple- 
Ifves,  and  weakened  the  simple  energy  of  the  original : 
Burns  consented  to  the  proper  alterations,  after  a  slight 


resistance;  but  when  Thomson,  having  succeeded  io 
this,  proposed  a  change  in  the  expression,  no  warrior  of 
Brace's  day  ever  resisted  more  sternly  the  march  of  a 
Southron  over  the  border.  *'  The  only  line,"  savs  the  mu^ 
sician,  "  which  I  dislike  in  the  whole  song  is, 

'  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed  :' 
gory  presents  a  disagreeable  image  to  the  mind,  and  c 
prudent  general  would  avoid  saying  anything  to  his  boU 
diers  which  might  tend  to  make  death  more  frightful  than 
it  is."  <<  My  ode,"  replied  Burns,  "  pleases  me  so  much 
that  I  cannot  alter  it :  your  proposed  alterations  would, 
in  my  opinion,  make  it  tame."  Thomson  cries  out,  like 
the  timid  wife  of  Coriolanus,  "  Oh,  God,  no  blood!" 
while  Burns  exclaims,  like  that  Roman's  heroic  mother, 
"Yes,  blood  !  it  becomes  a  soldier  more  than  gilt  hi« 
trophy."  The  ode  as  originally  written  was  restored 
afterwards  in  Thomson's  collection.] 


Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  glorious  victorie  I 


Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour — 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour  ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power- 
Edward  !  chains  and  slaverie  ! 

III. 
Wha  will  be  a  traitor-knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Traitor !  coward !  turn  and  flee  ! 


Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Caledonian !  on  wi'  me ! 


By  oppression's  woes  and  pains ! 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be — shall  be  free  i 


Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  1 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  I 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 
Forward  ^  let  us  do,  or  die  i 


OF   ROBERT   BUIiiNS. 


287 


CCVIII. 

BEHOLD   THE   HOUR. 

Tune — "  Oran-gaoil." 

I"  The  following  song  I  have  composed  for  the  Highland 
air  that  you  tell  me  in  your  last  you  have  resolved  to 
give  a  place  to  in  your  book.  I  have  this  moment  finished 
the  song,  so  you  have  it  glowing  from  the  mint."  These 
are  tlie  words  of  Burns  to  Thomson :  he  might  have 
added  ttat  tlie  song  was  written  on  the  meditated  voyage 
of  Clarinda  to  the  West  Indies,  to  join  her  husband.] 


Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive  ; 

Thou  goest,  thou  darling  of  my  heart ! 
Sever'd  from  thee  can  I  survive  ? 

But  fate  has  will'd,  and  we  must  part. 
I'll  often  greet  this  surging  swell, 

Yon  distant  isle  will  often  hail : 
**  E'en  here  I  took  the  last  farewell ; 

There,  latest  mark'd  her  vanish'd  sail.'' 


Along  the  solitary  shore 

While  flitting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry, 
Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I'll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye  : 
Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I'll  say, 

Where  now  my  Nancy's  path  may  be ! 
While  thro'  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray, 

0  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  ? 


CCIX. 

THOU  HAST   LEFT   ME  EVER. 

Tune — "  Fee  him,  father.'^ 

["I  do  not  give  these  verses,"  says  Bums  to  Thom- 
lon,  "  for  any  merit  they  have.  I  composed  them  at  the 
rime  in  which  *  Patie  Allan's  mither  died,  about  the 
back  o'  midnight,'  and  by  the  lee  side  of  a  bowl  of  punch, 
ivhich  had  overset  every  mortal  in  company,  except  the 
aautbois  and  the  muse.'*  To  the  poet's  intercourse  with 
lusicians  we  owe  some  fine  Bongs.] 

I. 
Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie  I 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever ; 
Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie  I 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever. 
Aften  hast  thou  vow'd  that  death 

Only  should  us  sever ; 
Now  thou's  left  thy  lass  for  ay — 

I  maun  see  thee  never,  Jamie, 
I'll  see  thee  never ! 


Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie  ! 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken  ; 
Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie ! 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken. 
Thou  canst  love  anither  jo, 

While  my  heart  is  breaking : 
Soon  my  weary  een  I'll  close, 

Never  mair  to  waken,  Jamie, 
Ne'er  mair  to  waken ! 


ccx. 

AULD  LANG   SYNE. 

[«•'  Is  not  the  Scotch  phrase,"  Burns  writes  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop,  "Auld  lang  syne,  exceedingly  expressive? 
There  is  an  old  song  and  tune  which  has  often  tlirilled 
through  my  soul :  I  shall  give  you  the  verses  on  the  other 
sheet.  Light  be  the  turf  on  the  breast  of  the  heliven-in- 
spired  poet  who  composed  this  glorious  fragment." 
"  The  following  song,"  says  the  poet,  when  he  commu- 
nicated it  to  George  Thomsoh,  "an  old  song  of  the  olden 
times,  and  whicli  has  never  been  in  print,  nor  even  ia 
manuscript,  until  I  took  it  down  from  an  old  man's  sing- 
ing, is  enough  to  recommend  any  air."  These  are  strong 
words,  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  save  for  a  line  oi 
two,  we  owe  the  song  to  no  other  minstrel  than  "  min* 
strel  Burns."] 

I. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne ! 

II. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 

And  pu't  the  gowans  fine ; 
But  we've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  foot, 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

III. 
We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  bum, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine : 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd, 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 


And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we'll  take  a  right  gtiid  willie-waught^ 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


288                                   THE   POETICAL  WORKS 

V. 

CCXII. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp, 
And  surely  I'll  be  mine ; 

DELUDED  SWAIN,  THE  PLEASURE. 

And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

[To  the  air  of  the  «' Collier's  dochter,"  Burns  bid« 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

Thomson  add  the  following  old  Bacchanal :  it  is  slightly 
altered  from  a  rather  stiff  original.] 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

I. 

We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

Delijdei)  swain,  the  pleasure 

For  auld  lang  syne ! 

The  fickle  fair  can  give  thee. 

Is  but  a  fairy  treasure — 

Thy  hopes  will  soon  deceive  thee 

II. 
The  billows  on  the  ocean, 

CCXI. 

The  breezes  idly  roaming, 

The  clouds  uncertain  motion — 

FAIR  JEANT. 

They  are  but  types  of  woman. 

Tune—"  Saw  ye  my  father?'' 

III. 

[In  September,  1793,  this  song,  as  well   as   several 

0 !  art  thou  not  ashamed 

others,  was  communicated  to  Thomson  by  Burns.    *'  Of 
the  poetry,"  he  says,  <'  I  speak  with  confidence  :  but  the 

To  doat  upon  a  feature? 

music  is  a  business  where  I  hint  my  ideas  with  the  ut- 

If man  thou  wouldst  be  named. 

most  diffidence."] 

Despise  the  silly  creature. 

I. 
Where  are  the  joys  I  have  met  in  the  morning, 

IV. 

Go  find  an  honest  fellow ; 

That  danc'd  to  the  lark's  early  song  ? 

Good  claret  set  before  thee : 

Where  is  the  peace  that  awaited  my  wand'ring, 

Hold  on  till  thou  art  mellow, 

At  evening  the  wild  woods  among  ? 

II. 

No  more  a-winding  the  course  of  yon  river, 

And  then  to  bed  in  glory. 

And  marking  sweet  flow'rets  so  fair : 

No  more  I  trace  the  light  footsteps  of  pleasure. 

ccxin. 

But  sorrow  and  sad  sighing  care. 

NANCY. 

[This  song  was  inspired  by  the  charms  »<f  Clau'v** 

III. 

In  one  of  the  poet's  manuscripts  the  song  comniencefc 

Is  it  that  summer's  forsaken  our  valleys, 

thus : 

And  grim,  surly  winter  is  near  ? 

Thine  am  I,  my  lovely  Kate, 

No,  no,  the  bees'  humming  round  the  gay  roses, 

Well  thou  mayest  discover 
Every  pulse  along  my  veins 

Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the  year. 

Tell  the  ardent  lover. 

This  change  was  tried  out  of  compliment,  it  ii  believed, 

IV. 

to  Mrs.  Thomson ;  but  Nancy  ran  more  smoothly  on  t^• 

Fain  would  I  hide,  what  I  fear  to  discover. 

even  road  of  lyrical  verse  than  Kate.] 

Yet  long,  long  too  well  have  I  known. 

I. 

All  that  has  caused  this  wreck  in  my  bosom, 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 

Is  Jeany,  fair  Jeany  alone. 

Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy ; 

Ev'ry  pulse  along  my  veins. 

V. 

Ev'ry  roving  fancy. 

Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  immortal. 

Nor  hope  dare  a  comfort  bestow : 

II. 

Come  then,  enamour'd  and  fond  of  my  anguish. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart, 

Enjoyment  I'll  seek  in  my  woe. 

There  to  throb  and  languish: 

AWS,®    JLASS"(S    STSJIEc 


And   here's  a  hand,  my   trusty   fier. 

And   gies  a  hand    o'  thine  • 
And  -weell  talc  a  right  g-nid  -  willi  e   -wavight, 


UJF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


289 


Tho'  despair  had  wrung  its  core, 

"  I  will  hope  and  trust  in  heaven. 

That  would  heal  its  anguish. 

Nancy,  Nancy; 

Strength  to  bear  it  will  be  given. 

III. 

My  spouse,  Nancy." 

Take  away  those  rosy  lips, 

Rich  with  balmy  treasure  : 

IV. 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love, 

Well,  sir,  from  the  silent  dead. 

Lest  I  die  with  pleasure. 

Still  I'll  try  to  daunt  you ; 

IV. 

Ever  round  your  midnight  bed 

Horrid  sprites  shall  haunt  you. 

What  is  life  when  wanting  love? 

"  I'll  wed  another,  like  my  dear 

Night  without  a  morning: 

Nancy,  Nancy; 

Love's  the  cloudless  summer  sun, 

Then  all  hell  will  fly  for  fear. 

Nature  gay  adorning. 

My  spouse,  Nancy." 

CCXIV. 

ccxv. 

HUSBAND,    HUSBAND. 

WILT   THOU  BE    MY  DEARIli. 

Tune— ".7b  Janet" 

Air—"  The  Sutor's  Dochter." 

("  My  Jo  Janet,"  in  the  collection  of  Allan  Ramsay, 

was  in  the  poet's  eye  when  he  composed  this  song,  as 

[Composed,  it  is  said,  in  honour  of  Janet  Millet,  of 

surely  as  the  matrimonial  bickerings  recorded  by  the  old 

Dalswinton,  mother  to  tl;b  present  Earl  of  Marr,  and 

minstrels  were  in  his  mind.     He  desires  Thomson  briefly 

then,  and  long  after,  one  of  the  loveliest  women  in  tin 

to  tell  him  how  he  likes  these  verses:  the  response  of 

south  of  Scotland.] 

the  musician  was,  "  Inimitable."] 

I. 

I. 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 

Nor  longer  idly  rave,  sir; 

Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

Tho'  I  am  your  wedded  wife. 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul. 

Yet  I  am  not  your  slave,  sir. 

That's  the  love  I  bear  thee  ! 

"One  of  two  must  still  obey, 

I  swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 

Nancy,  Nancy; 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Is  it  man  or  woman,  say, 

Only  thou,  I  swear  and  vow, 

My  spouse,  Nancy  ?" 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

II. 

If  'tis  still  the  lordly  word, 

II. 

Lassie,  say  thou  lo'es  me ; 

Service  and  obedience ; 

Or  if  thou  wilt  no  be  my  ain, 

I'll  desert  my  sov'reign  lord, 

Say  na  thou'lt  refuse  me : 

And  so,  good  bye,  allegiance ! 

If  it  winna,  canna  be. 

"  Sad  will  I  be,  so  bereft, 

Thou,  for  thine  may  choose  m*. 

Nancy,  Nancy ; 

Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die. 

Yet  I'll  try  to  make  a  «hif^ 

Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 

My  spouse,  Nancy." 

Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die. 

III. 

Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 

My  poor  heart  then  break  It  ^j^  , 

My  last  hour  I'm  near  it: 

When  you  lay  me  in  the  dust. 

Think,  think,  how  you  will  bear  it. 
19 

290                                   THE   POETICAL   WOKKS 

CCXVI. 

II. 
Then  let  the  sudden  bursting  sigh 

BUT  LATELY  SEEN. 

The  heart-felt  pang  discover ; 

Tune — "  The  winter  of  life." 

And  in  the  keen,  yet  tender  eye, 

0  read  th'  imploring  lover. 

[This  song  was  written  for  Johnson's  Museum,  in 
1794  :  the  air  is  East  Indian  :  it  was  brought  from  Hindo- 

For  well  I  know  thy  gentle  mind 

■tan  by  a  particular  friend  of  the  poet.    Thomson  set  the 

Disdains  art's  gay  disguising  ; 

words  to  the  air  of  Gil  Morrice  :  they  are  elsewhere  set 

Beyond  what  Fancy  e'er  refin'd, 

to  the  tune  of  the  Death  of  the  L/  nnet.] 
I. 
But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 

The  voice  of  nature  piizing. 

The  woods  rejoiced  the  day  ; 

CCXVIII. 

Thro'  gentle  showers  and  laughing  flowers, 

HERE'S    TO    THY    HEALTH,    MY 

■;              In  double  pride  were  gay  : 

BONNIE   LASS. 

I         But  now  our  joys  are  fled 

[             On  winter  blasts  awa ! 

Tune — ''  Laggmi  Bum." 

j          Yet  maiden  May,  in  rich  array, 

["  This  song  is  in  the  Musical  Museum,  with  Burns'i 

\             Again  shall  bring  them  a'. 

name  to  it,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas.    It  is  a  song  of  the 

\ 

poet's  early  days,  which  he  trimmed  up,  and  sent  to 

\                                           "• 

Johnson.] 

;          But  my  white  pow,  nae  kindly  thowe 

I. 

•              Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age ; 

Here's  to  thy  health,  my  bonnie  lass. 

'          My  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  or  bield, 

Gude  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  thee  ; 

;              Sinks  in  Time's  wintry  rage. 

I'll  come  na  mair  to  thy  bower-door, 

\          Oh !  age  has  weary  days, 

To  tell  thee  that  I  lo'e  thee. 

1              And  nights  o'  sleepless  pain ! ' 

0  dinna  think,  my  pretty  pink, 

Thou  golden  time  o'  youthfu'  prime, 

But  I  can  live  without  thee : 

Why  comes  thou  not  again  ? 

I  vow  and  swear  I  dinna  care 

- 

How  lang  ye  look  about  ye. 

II. 
Thou'rt  ay  sae  free  informing  me 

f 

CCXVII. 

Thou  hast  na  mind  to  marry ; 

TO   MARY. 

I'll  be  as  free  informing  thee 

Nae  time  hae  I  to  tarry. 

?                     Tune—"  Could  aught  of  song." 

I  ken  thy  friends  try  ilka  means. 

[These  verses,  inspired  partly  by  Hamilton's  very  ten- 

Frae  wedlock  to  delay  thee ; 

^       der  and  elegant  song, 

Depending  on  some  higher  chance — 

'.                 "Ah!  the  poor  shepherd's  mournful  fate," 

But  fortune  may  betray  thee. 

and  some  unrecorded  "  Mary"  of  the  poet's  heart,  is  in 

^       the  latter  volumes  of  Johnson.    "  It  is  inserted  in  John- 

III. 

l       Bon's  Museum,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  "with  the 

I  ken  they  scorn  my  low  estate. 

''       name  of  Burns  attached."    He  might  have  added  that  it 
was  sent  by  Burns^  writter  wJ.'Ji  his  own  hand.] 

But  that  does  never  grieve  me ; 

But  I'm  as  free  as  any  he. 

I. 

Sma'  siller  will  relieve  me. 

Could  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains, 

I  count  my  health  my  greatest  wealth, 

Could  artful  numbers  move  thee, 

Sae  long  as  I'll  enjoy  it : 

The  muse  should  tell,  in  labour 'd  strains, 

I'll  fear  na  scant,  I'll  bode  nae  want, 

0  Mary,  how  I  love  thee  ! 

As  lang's  I  get  employment. 

They  who  but  feign  a  wounded  heart 

May  teach  the  lyre  to  languish ; 

IV. 

But  what  avails  the  pride  of  art. 

But  far  off"  fowls  hae  feathers  fair. 

When  wastes  the  soul  with  anguish  ? 

And  ay  until  ye  try  them  : 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        29l    1 

Tho'  they  seem  fair,  still  have  a  care, 

V. 

They  may  prove  waur  than  I  am.    [bright, 

When  day  is  gane,  and  night  is  *ome. 

But  at  twal  at  night,  when  the  moon  shines 

And  a'  folk  bound  to  sleep ; 

My  dear,  I'll  come  and  see  thee  ; 

I  think  on  him  that's  far  awa'. 

For  the  man  that  lo'es  his  mistress  weel, 

The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep, 

Nae  travel  makes  him  weary. 

My  dear ; 

The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 

CCXIX. 

CCXX. 

THE   FAREWELL. 

0   STEER  HER  UP. 

Tune — *'/i{  was  a'  for  our  riffhifu'  king." 

Tune — "  0  steer  her  up,  and  hand  her  gaun?* 

["It  seems  very  doubtful,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas, 

[Burns,  in  composmg  these  verses,  took  the  introduc 

"  how  much,  even  if  any  part  of  this  song  was  written  by 

tory  lines  of  an  older  lyric,  eked  them  out  in  his  own 

Burns  :  it  occurs  in  the  Musical  Museum,  but  not  with 

way,  and  sent  them  to  tlie  Museum.] 

his  name."    Burns,  it  is   believed,  rather  pruned  and 

beautified  an  old  Scottish  lyric,  than  composed  this  strain 

I. 

entirely.    Johnson  received  it  from  him  in  his  own  hand- 

0 STEER  her  up  and  hand  her  gaun — 

writing.] 

Her  mother's  at  the  mill,  jo; 

I. 

And  gin  she  winna  take  a  man, 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king, 

E'en  let  her  take  her  will,  jo : 

We  left  fair  Scotland's  strand ; 

First  shore  her  wi'  a  kindly  kiss, 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king 

And  ca'  another  gill,  jo. 

We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 

And  gin  she  take  the  thing  amiss. 

My  dear ; 

E'en  let  her  flyte  her  fiL,  jo. 

We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 

II. 

II. 

0  steer  her  up,  and  be  na  blate, 

Now  a'  is  done  that  men  can  do, 

An'  gin  she  take  it  ill,  jo. 

And  a'  is  done  in  vain  ; 

Then  lea'e  the  lassie  till  her  fate. 

My  love  and  native  land  farewell, 

And  time  nae  longer  spill,  jo : 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main, 

Ne'er  break  your  heart  for  ae  rebute, 

My  dear ; 
For  I  maun  cross  the  main. 

But  think  upon  it  still,  jo, 

That  gin  the  lassie  winna  do't, 

Ye'll  fin'  anither  will,  jo. 

III. 

He  turn'd  him  right,  and  round  about 
Upon  the  Irish  shore  ; 

And  gae  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

With  adieu  for  evermore. 

CCXXI. 

My  dear ; 

0  AY  MY  WIFE  SHE  DANG  ME. 

With  adieu  for  evermore. 

Tune—"  My  mfe  she  dang  me." 

IV. 

[Other  verses  to  the  same  air,  belonging  to  the  oldea 

The  sodger  from  the  wars  returns, 
The  sailor  frae  the  main ; 

times,  are  still  remembered  in  Scotland :  but  they  are 
only  sung  when  the  wine  is  in,  and  the  sense  of  delicacv 
out.    This  song  is  in  the  Museum.] 

But  I  hae  parted  frae  my  love, 

Never  to  meet  again. 

I. 

My  dear ; 

0  AT  my  wife  she  dang  me, 

Never  to  meet  again 

And  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me. 

292                                   THE   POETICAL  WORKS                                          | 

If  ye  gie  a  woman  a'  her  will, 

Gude  faith,  she'll  soon  o'er-gang  ye. 

CCXXIII. 

On  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent, 

HERE   IS   THE   GLEN. 

And  fool  I  was  I  married  ; 

But  never  honest  man's  intent, 

Tune—"  Banks  of  Cree." 

As  cursedly  miscarried. 

[Of  the  origin  of  this  song  the  poet  gives  the  following 

account.     "  1  got  an  air.  pretty   enough,  composed  bj 

II. 

Lady  Elizabeth  Heron,  of  Heron,  which  she  calls  '  Th€ 

Some  sairie  comfort  still  at  last, 

Banks  of  Cree.'     Cree  is  a  l)eautiful   romantic  stream: 
and  as  her  ladyship  is  a  particul:ir  friend  of  mine,  I  hav€ 

When  a'  their  days  are  done,  man ; 

written  the  following  song  to  it."] 

My  pains  o'  hell  on  earth  are  past, 

I. 

I'm  sure  o'  bliss  aboon,  man. 

0  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me, 

Hrre  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower. 

And  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me, 

All  underneath  the  birchen  shade ; 

If  ye  gie  a  woman  a'  her  will. 

The  village-bell  has  told  the  hour — 

Gude  faith,  she'll  soon  o'er-gang  ye. 

0  what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid  ? 

II. 

'Tis  not  Maria's  whispering  call ; 
'Tis  but  the  balmy-breathing  gale. 

Mix'd  with  some  warbler's  dying  fall, 

CCXXII. 

The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  haiL 

OH,  WERT   THOU    IN    THE    CAULD 

III. 

BLAST. 

It  is  Maria's  voice  I  hear ! 

Tune — ^^Lass  o'  Livistone.'" 

•  So  calls  the  woodlark  in  the  grove, 

His  little,  faithful  mate  to  cheer. 

[Tradition  says  this  song  was  composed  in  honour  of 
lessie  Lewars,  the  Jessie  of  the  poet's  death-bed  strains. 

At  once  'tis  music — and  'tis  love. 

t  is  inserted  in  Thomson's  collection  :  variations  occur 

n  several  manuscripts,  but  they  are  neither  important 

IV. 

•or  curious.] 

And  art  thou  come  ?  and  art  thou  true  ? 

I. 

0  welcome,  dear  to  love  and  me! 

Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast. 

And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea. 

Along  the  flow'ry  banks  of  Cree. 

My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt. 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee  : 
Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 

Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

CCXXIV. 

Tc  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

ON   THE   SEAS   AND   FAR  AWAY. 

II. 

Tune—"  O'er  the  hills,"  ^'c. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare. 

["  The  last  evening,"  29th  of  August,  1794,  "as  I  was 
straying  out,"  says  Burns,  "and  thinking  of '  O'er  the 

The  desert  were  a  paradise. 

hills  and  far  away,'  I  spun  the  following  stanzas  for  it. 

■  If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there : 

I  was  pleased  with  several  lines  at  first,  but  I  own  now 

Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe. 

that  it  appears  rather  a  flimsy  business.     I  give  you  leave 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign. 

to  abuse  this  song,  but  do  it  in  the  spirit  oC  Christiai 
n.'eekness." 

The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 

I 

How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 

When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  ? 
How  can  I  the  thought  forego. 

He's  on  the  seas  to  meet  the  foe? 

OF   ROBEKT  BURNS.                                        295 

Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove, 

Ca'  them  whare  the  burnie  rowes — 

Still  my  heart  is  with  my  love  : 

My  bonnie  dearie ! 

Nightly  dreams,  and  thoughts  by  day, 

Hark  the  mavis'  evening  sang 

Are  with  him  that's  far  away. 

Sounding  Cluden's  woods  amang! 

On  the  seas  and  far  away. 

Then  a  faulding  let  us  gang, 

On  stormy  seas  and  far  away; 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

Nightly  dreams,  and  thoughts  by  day, 

Are  ay  with  him  that's  far  away. 

II. 

We'll  gae  down  by  Cluden  side. 

II. 

Thro'  the  hazels  spreading  wide. 

When  in  summer's  noon  I  faint, 

O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 

As  weary  flocks  around  me  pant. 

To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

Haply  in  this  scorching  sun 

My  sail.r's  thund'ring  at  his  gun: 

III. 

Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  ! 
Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy ! 

Yonder  Cluden's  silent  towers. 

Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 

Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may — 

O'er  the  dewy  bending  flowers, 

Spare  but  him  that's  far  away ! 

Fairies  dance  so  cheery. 

III. 
At  the  starless  midnight  hour. 

IV. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear; 

When  winter  rules  with  boundless  power: 

Thou'rt  to  love  and  heaven  sae  dear. 

As  the  storms  the  forest  tear. 

Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near, 

And  thunders  rend  the  howling  air, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

Listening  to  the  doubling  roar, 

V. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art. 
Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart; 

Surging  on  the  rocky  shore. 
All  I  can — I  weep  and  pray. 

For  his  weal  that's  far  away. 

I  can  die — but  canna  part — 

IV. 

My  bonnie  dearie ! 

Peace,  thy  olive  wand  extend. 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes. 

And  bid  wild  war  his  ravage  end. 

Ca*  them  whare  the  heather  growes ; 

Man  with  brother  man  to  meet, 

Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rowes — 

And  as  a  brother  kindly  greet : 

My  bonnie  dearie ! 

Then  may  heaven  with  prosp'rous  gales, 
Fill  my  sailor's  welcome  sails. 

To  my  arms  their  charge  convey — 

CCXXVI. 

My  dear  lad  that's  far  away. 

On  the  seas  and  far  away 

SHE  SAYS  SHE  LOVES  ME  BEST  OF  A'. 

On  stormy  seas  and  far  away ; 

Tune—"  Onagh's  WaierfalV 

Nightly  dreams,  and  thoughts  by  day, 

[The  lady  of  the  flaxen  ringlets  has  already  been  no. 

Are  ay  with  him  that's  far  away. 

ticed :  she  is  described  in  this  song  with  the  accuracy  oi 

a  painter,  and  more  than  tiie  usual  elegance  of  one  :  itii 
needless  to  add  her  name,  or  to  say  how  fine  her  forcr 

and  how  resistless  her  smiles.] 

ccxxv. 

CA'   THE  YOWES. 

I. 

Sab  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 

tUurnB  formed  this  snng  upon  an  old  lyric,  an  amended 

Her  eyebrows  of  a  darker  hue, 

versicm  of  wliicli  lie  had  previously  communicated  to  the 

Bewitchingly  o'er-arching 

Museum :  he  was  fond  of  musing  in  the  shadow  of  Lin- 

Twa  laughin'  een  o'  bonnie  blue. 

cluden  towers,  and  on  the  banks  of  Cluden  Water.] 

Her  smiling  sae  wyling. 

I. 

Wad  make  a  wretch  forget  his  woe; 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

What  pleasure,  what  treasure. 

Ca'  them  whare  the  heather  growes. 

Unto  these  rosy  lips  to  grow  • 

294 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


Such  was  my  Chloris'  bonnie  face, 
When  first  her  bonnie  face  I  saw ; 

And  ay  my   Chloris'  dearest  charm, 
She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 


Like  harmony  her  motion ; 

Her  pretty  ankle  is  a  spy. 
Betraying  fair  proportion, 

Wad  mak  a  saint  forget  the  sky. 
Sae  warming,  sae  charming, 

Her  faultless  form  and  gracefu'  air; 
Ilk  feature — auld  Nature 

Declar'd  that  she  could  do  nae  mair : 
Hers  are  the  willing  chains  o'  love. 

By  conquering  beauty's  sovereign  law ; 
A.nd  ay  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm, 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 

III. 
Let  others  love  the  city. 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon; 
Gie  me  the  lonely  valley, 

The  dewy  eve,  and  rising  moon ; 
Fair  beaming,  and  streaming. 

Her  silver  light  the  boughs  amang ; 
While  falling,  recalling. 

The  amorous  thrush  concludes  his  sang; 
There,  dearest  Chloris,  wilt  thou  rove 

By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw, 
And  hear  my  vows  o'  truth  and  love, 

And  say  thou  lo'es  me  best  of  a'  ? 


CCXXVII. 

SAW   YE   MY   PHELY. 

[quasi  dicat  phillis.] 
Tune — "TTAew  she  came  hen  she  bobhiV^ 

[The  despairing  swain  in  this  song  was  Stephen 
Clarke,  musician,  and  the  young  lady  whom  he  per- 
luaded  Burns  to  accuse  of  inconstancy  and  coldness  was 
Phi.lisM'Murdo.] 

I. 

0  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 
0  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 
She's  down  i'  the  grove,  she's  wi'  a  new  love ! 
She  winna  come  hame  to  her  Willy. 

II. 
What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 
What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 
She  lets  thee  to  wit  that  she  has  thee  forgot, 
4nd  for  ever  disowns  thee,  her  Willy. 


0  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  I 
0  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely ! 
As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou's  fair, 
Thou's  broken  the  heart  o'  thy  Willy. 


CCXXVIII. 

HOW  LANG  AND  DREARY  IS  THE  NIGHT. 

Tune — "  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen." 

[On  comparing  this  lyric,  corrected  for  Thomson,  with 
that  in  the  Museum,  it  will  he  seen  that  the  former  hai 
more  of  elegance  and  order :  the  latter  quite  as  much 
nature  and  truth :  but  there  is  less  of  the  new  than  of  th« 
old  in  both.] 

I. 

How  lang  and  dreary  is  the  night, 

When  I  am  frae  my  dearie  ; 
I  restless  lie  frae  e'en  to  morn. 
Though  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 

For  oh  !  her  lanely  nights  are  lang ; 

And  oh  !  her  dreams  are  eerie  ; 

And  oh,  her  widow'd  heart  is  sair, 

That's  absent  frae  her  dearie. 


When  I  think  on  the  lightsome  days 
I  spent  wi'  thee  my  dearie ; 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar — 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie? 


How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours ; 

The  joyless  day  how  dreary! 
It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by. 
When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

For  oh !  her  lanely  nights  are  lan^ ; 

And  oh,  her  dreams  are  eerie ; 

And  oh,  her  widow'd  heart  is  sair, 

That's  absent  frae  her  dearie. 


CCXXIX. 
LET  NOT  WOMAN  E'ER  COMPLAIN. 

Tune — ^^  Duncan  Gray.'"' 

["  These  English  songs,"  thus  complains  the  poet,  i« 
the  letter  which  conveyed  this  lyri':  to  Thomson,  "  gra« 
vel  me  to  death :  I  have  not  that  command  of  the  las 


OP  ROBERT   BURNS. 


29D 


guage  that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue.  I  have  been  at 
•Duncan  Gray,'  to  dress  it  in  English,  but  all  I  can  do  is 
deplorably  stupid.    For'  instance :"] 


Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 

Of  inconstancy  in  love ; 
Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 

Fickle  man  is  apt  to  rove : 
Look  abroad  through  nature's  range, 
Nature's  mighty  law  is  change  ; 
Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange, 

Man  should  then  a  monster  prove  ? 


Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies ; 

Ocean's  ebb,  and  ocean's  flow : 
Sun  and  moon  but  set  to  rise. 

Round  and  round  the  seasons  go : 
"Why  then  ask  of  silly  man 
To  oppose  great  nature's  plan  ? 
We'll  be  constant  while  we  can — 

You  can  be  no  more,  you  know. 


When  absent  frae  my  fair, 

The  murky  shades  o'  care 
With  starless  gloom  o'ercast  my  sullen  sky ; 

But  when,  in  beauty's  light. 

She  meets  my  ravish'd  sight. 

When  thro'  my  very  heart 

Her  beaming  glories  dart — 
'Tis  then  I  wake  to  life,  to  light,  and  joy. 


ccxxx. 

THE  LOVER'S   MORNING  SALUTE 
TO   HIS  MISTRESS. 

Tune— "Dc/Z  tah  the  Wars:' 

[Burns  has,  in  one  of  his  letters,  partly  intimated  that 
this  morning  salutation  to  Chloris  was  occasioned  by 
Bitting  till  the  dawn  at  the  punch-bowl,  and  walking 
past  her  window  on  his  way  home.] 


Sleep'st  thou,  or  wak'stthou,  fairest  creature  ? 

Rosy  Morn  now  lifts  his  eye, 
NuJibering  ilka  bud  which  nature 

Waters  wi'  the  tears  o'  joy  : 

Now  through  the  leafy  woods. 

And  by  the  reeking  floods, 
Wild  nature's  tenants  freely,  gladly  stray; 

1  he  lintwhite  in  his  bower 

Chants  o'er  the  breathing  flower ; 

The  lav'rock  to  the  sky 

Ascends  wi'  sangs  o'  joy, 
While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the  day. 


Phoebus  gilding  the  brow  o'  morning, 
Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade, 

Nature  gladdening  and  adorning ; 
Such  to  me  my  lovely  maid. 


CCXXXI. 
CHLORIS. 

Air — "  My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground." 

[The  origin  of  this  song  is  thus  told  by  Bums  to  Thoni 
son.  "  On  my  visit  the  other  day  to  my  fair  Chloris, 
that  is  the  poetic  name  of  the  lovely  goddess  of  my  inspi 
ration,  she  suggested  an  idea  which  I,  on  my  return  frort 
the  visit,  wrought  into  the  following  song."  The  poetic 
elevation  of  Chloris  is  great :  she  lived,  when  her  charim 
faded,  in  want,  and  died  all  but  destitute."] 


My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves 
The  primrose  banks  how  fair  : 

The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers, 
And  wave  thy  flaxen  hair. 


The  lav'rock  shuns  the  palace  gay. 
And  o'er  the  cottage  sings  ; 

For  nature  smiles  as  sweet,  I  ween. 
To  shepherds  as  to  kings 


Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skilfu'  string 

In  lordly  lighted  ha' : 
The  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed, 

Blythe,  in  the  birken  shaw. 


The  princely  revel  may  survey 
Our  rustic  dance  wi'  scorn ; 

But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ouis, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  ? 


The  shepherd,  in  the  flow'ry  glen, 
In  shepherd's  phrase  will  woo : 

The  courtier  tells  a  finer  tale — 
But  is  his  heart  as  true  ? 


296                                     THE    POETICAL    VvoitK8 

VI. 

not  make  such  a  figure  in  poe^ie  ns  that  other  species  of 

These  wild-wood  flowers  I've  pu'd,  to  deck 

the  passion,  where  love  is  liberty  and  nature  law.    Mu- 

sically speaking,  the  first  is  fin  instrument  of  which  the 

That  spotless  breast  o'  thine  : 

gamut  is  scanty  and  confineil,  but  the  tones  mexpressiblv 

The  courtier's  gems  may  witness  love — 

sweet,  while  the  last  has  powers  equal   to  all  the  intel. 

But  'tis  na  love  like  mine. 

lectual   modulations  of  the  human   soul."     It  must  be 

owned  that  the  bard  could  render  very  pretty  reasoLAfo 

his  rapture  about  Jean  Loriiner.] 

I. 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks. 

CCXXXII. 

C  H  L  0  E. 

Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie. 

Wilt  thou  wi'  me  tent  the  flocks? 

Air—"  Daintie  Davie:' 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  0  ? 

Now  nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea. 

[Burns,  (lespniring  to  fit  some  of  the  airs  with  such 

verses  of  original  marmffictnre  as  Tliomson  required,  for 

And  a'  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee ; 

tlie  English  part  of  his  collection,  took  the  liberty  of  be- 

0 wilt  thou  share  its  joy  wi'  me. 

stowing  a  Southron  dress  on  some  genuine  Caledonian 

And  say  thoul't  be  my  dearie,  0  ? 

lyrics.     The  origin  of  this  song  may  be  found  in  Ram- 

eay's  miscellany:  the  bombast  is  abated,  and  tlis  whole 

II. 

much  improved.] 

And  when  the  welcome  simmer  showei 

I. 

Has  cheer'd  ilk  drooping  little  flower. 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 

We'll  to  the  breathing  woodbine  bower 

When  all  the  flow'rs  were  fresh  and  gay, 

At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  0. 

One  morning,  by  the  break  of  day, 

The  youthful  charming  Chloe 

.     III. 

From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose, 

When  Cynthia  lights  wi'  silver  ray. 

Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose. 

The  weary  shearer's  hameward  way ; 

And  o'er  the  flowery  mead  she  goes, 

Thro'  yellow  waving  fields  we'll  stray. 

The  youthful  charming  Chloe. 

And  talk  o'  love,  my  dearie,  0. 

Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn, 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 

IV. 

Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn, 

And  when  the  howling  wintry  blast 

The  youthful  charming  Chloe. 

Disturbs  my  lassie's  midnight  rest ; 

Enclasped  to  my  faithfu'  breast. 

II. 

I'll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  0. 

The  feather'd  people  you  might  see, 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks, 

Perch'd  all  around,  on  every  tree, 

Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 

In  notes  of  sweetest  melody 

Wilt  thou  wi'  me  tent  the  flocks? 

They  hail  the  charming  Chloe  ; 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  0  ? 

Till  painting  gay  the  eastern  skies, 

The  glorious  sun  began  to  "rise, 
Out-rivall'd  by  the  radiant  eyes 

Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn. 

CCXXXIV. 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe, 

Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn, 

FAREWELL,    THOU   STREAM. 

The  youthfp.l,  charming  Chloe. 

Air — '■'■Nancy's  to  the  greenwood gane." 

[This  song  was  written  in  November,  1794:  Thomson 
pronounced  it  excellent.] 

CCXXXIII. 

I. 

LASSIE  Wr  THE  LINT-WHITE  LOCKS. 

Farewell,  thou  stream  that  winding  flows 

Tune—"  Rothemurche's  Rant" 

Around  Eliza's  dwelling! 

["  Conjugal  love,"  sa  /s  the  poet,  "  is  a  passion  which 

0  mem'ry  !  spare  the  cruel  throes 

1  deeply  feel  and  highly  venerate  :  but  somehow  it  does 

Within  my  bosom  swelling  : 

1 

- . .  ■  "1 

OF   ROBEllT    BURNS.                                        297 

Oondemn'd  to  drag  a  hopeless  chain, 

SHE. 

And  yet  in  secret  languish, 

As  on  the  brier  the  budding  rose 

To  feel  a  fire  in  ev'ry  vein, 

Still  richer  breathes  and  fairer  blows, 

Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish. 

So  in  my  tender  bosom  grows 

II. 

The  love  I  bear  my  Willy. 

LoTc's  veriest  wretch,  unseen,  unknown, 

HE. 

I  fain  my  griefs  would  cover ; 

The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky 

The  bu-stina:  sigh,  th'  unweeting  groan. 

That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi'  joy. 

Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

Were  ne'er  sae  welcome  to  my  eye 

1  know  thou  doom'st  me  to  despair, 

As  is  a  sight  o'  Philly. 

Nor  wilt,  nor  canst  relieve  me  ; 

But  oh,  Eliza,  hear  one  prayer — 

SHE. 

For  pity's  sake  forgive  me  ! 

The  little  swallow's  wanton  wing. 

Tho'  wafting  o'er  the  flowery  spring. 

III. 

Did  ne'er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring, 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I  heard, 

As  meeting  o'  my  Willy. 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslav'd  me ; 

I  saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear'd. 

HE. 

'Till  fears  no  more  had  sav'd  me : 

The  bee  that  thro*  the  sunny  hour 

The  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast, 

Sips  nectar  in  the  opening  flower. 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing; 

Compar'd  wi'  my  delight  is  poor. 

'Mid  circling  horrors  sinks  at  last 

Upon  the  lips  o'  Philly. 

In  overwhelming  ruin. 

SHE. 

The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  weet 
When  evening  shades  in  silence  meet. 

Is  nocht  sae  fragrant  or  sae  sweet 

ccxxxv. 

As  is  a  kiss  o'  Willy. 

0   PHILLY,  HAPPY  BE   THAT   DAY. 

HE. 

Tune—"  The  Sow's  Tail" 

Let  Fortune's  wheel  at  random  rin. 

['<Tlii8  morning"  (19th  November,  1794),  "  though  a 

And  fools  may  tyne,  and  knaves  may  win  • 

keen  blowing  frost,"  Burns  writes  to  Tlu)mson,  "  in  my 

My  thoughts  are  a'  bound  up  in  ane, 

walk  before  breakfast  I   finished    my  duet:  whether  I 

And  that's  my  ain  dear  Philly. 

have  uniformly  succeeded,  1  will  not  say:  but  here  it  is 

for  vou,  though  it  is  not  an  hour  old."] 

SHE. 

HE. 

What's  a'  joys  that  gowd  can  gie? 

0  PiiTLLY,  happy  be  that  day, 

I  care  nae  wealth  a  single  flie  ; 

When  roving  through  the  gather'd  hay. 

The  lad  I  love's  the  lad  for  me, 

My  youthfu'  heart  was  stown  away. 

And  that's  my  ain  dear  Willy. 

And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly. 

SHE. 

0  Wit  J,  ay  I  bless  the  grove 

Where  first  I  own'd  my  maiden  love. 

Whilst  thou  didst  pledge  the  powers  above, 

CCXXXVI. 

To  be  my  ain  dear  Willy. 

CONTENTED  WP  LITTLE. 

HE. 

As  songsters  of  the  early  year 

Tune—"  Lumps  o'  Pudding. " 

Are  ilka  day  mair  sweet  to  hear, 

[Burns  was  nn  ndmirer  of  many  songs  which  the  more 

So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear 

critical  and  fastidioi's  regarded   as   rude  and    homely 

"Todlin  Hnme"  he  calle<l  nn  unequalled  composition  lor 

And  charming  is  my  Philly. 

wit  and  humour,  and  "  Andro  wi'  his  cutty  Gun,"  tlie 

^   298 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


work  of  a  master.  In  the  same  letter,  where  he  records 
these  sentiments,  he  writes  his  own  inimitable  song, 
"  Contented  wi'  Little."] 

I. 

Contented  wi'  little,  and  cantie  wi'  mair, 
Whene'er  I  forgather  wi'  sorrow  and  care, 
I  gie  them  a  skelp,  as  they're  creepin  alang, 
Wi'  a  cog  o'  guid  swats,  and  an  auld  Scottish 

sang. 

II. 
I  whyles  claw  the  elbow  o'  troublesome  thought; 
But  man  is  a  sodger,  and  life  is  a  faught : 
My  mirth  and  guid  humour  are  coin  in  my  pouch. 
And  my  freedom's  my  lairdship  nae  monarch 

dare  touch. 


A  towmond  o'   trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa', 
A  night  o'  guid  fellowship  sowthers  it  a' : 
When  at  the  blithe  end  o'  our  journey  at  last, 
Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o'  the  road  he  has  past  ? 


Blind  chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte  on  her 

way; 
Be't  to  me,  be't  frae  me,  e'en  let  the  jade  gae : 
Come  ease,  or  come  travail ;    come  pleasure  or 

pain  ; 
My  warst  word  is — *'  Welcome,  and  welcome 

again !" 


CCXXXVII. 


CANST   THOU  LEAVE    ME   THUS. 

Tune— "i2oy'«  Wife." 

[When  Burns  transcribed  the  following  song  for  Thom- 
son, on  the  2Wh  of  November,  1794,  he  added,  "  Well !  I 
think  this,  to  be  done  in  tVvo  or  three  turns  across  my 
room,  and  with  two  or  three  pinches  of  Irish  blackguard, 
is  not  so  far  amiss.  You  see  I  am  res<?'ved  to  liave  my 
quantum  of  applause  from  somebody."  The  poet  in  this 
»(iiif  complains  of  the  coldness  of  Mrs.  Riddel:  the  lady 
«phed  in  a  strain  equally  tender  '-nd  forgiving.] 

I. 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Well  thou  know'st  my  aching  heart  — 
And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  ? 
In  this  thy  plighted,  fond  regard. 
Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy  ? 
Is  this  thy  faithful  swain's  reward — 
An  aching,  broken  heart,  my  Katy! 


Farewell !  and  ne'er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy  1 
Thou  may'st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear — 
But  not  a  love  like  mine,  my  Katy  ! 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Well  thou  know'st  my  aching  heart — 
And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  ? 


ccxxxvin. 

MY  NANNIE'S   AWA. 

Tune — •*  There'll  never  be  peace." 

[Clarinda,  tradition  avers,  was  the  inspirer  of  thu 
song,  which  tlie  poet  composed  in  December,  1794,  for 
the  work  of  Thomson.  His  thoughts  were  often  in  Edin- 
burgh :  on  festive  occasions,  when,  as  Campbell  beauti- 
fully says,  "  Tlie  wine-cup  shines  in  light,"  he  seldom 
forgot  to  toast  Mrs.  Mac] 

I. 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blythe  nature  arrays, 
And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o'er  the 

braes, 
While  birds  warble  welcome  in  ilka  green  shaw ; 
But  to  me  it's  delightless — my  Nannie's  awa ! 


The    snaw-drap   and   primrose  our  woodlands 

adorn. 
And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o'  the  morn ; 
They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  sae  sweetly  they  blaw, 
They  mind  me  o'  Nannie —  and  Nanny's  awa ! 


Thou  lav'rock  that  springs  frae  the  dews  of  the 

lawn. 
The  shepherd  to  warn  o'  the  gray-breaking  dawn. 
And  thou  mellow  mavis  that  hails  the  night  fa', 
Give  over  for  pity — my  Nannie's  awa ! 


Come  autumn  sae  pensive,  in  yellow  an 3  gray, 
And  soothe  me  with  tidings  o'  nature's  decay; 
The  dark  dreary  winter,  and  wild  driving  snaw, 
Alane  can  delight  me — now  Nannie's  awa  I 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS. 


29^ 


CCXXXIX. 

U  WHA  IS  SHE  THAT  LOVES   ME. 

Tune — **Morag." 

["  This  song,"  says  Sir  Harris  Nicolas,  '*  is  said,  in 
Thomson's  collection,  to  have  been  written  for  that  work 
by  Burns:  but  it  is  not  included  in  Mr.  Cunningham's 
edition."  If  sir  Harris  would  be  so  good  as  to  look  at 
page  245,  vol.  V.,  of  Cunningham's  edition  of  Burns,  he 
will  find  the  song :  and  if  he  will  look  at  page  28,  and 
page  193  of  vol.  III.  of  his  own  edition,  he  will  find  that 
he  has  not  committed  the  error  of  which  he  accuses  his 
fellow-editor,  for  he  has  inserted  the  same  song  twice. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  song  to  Chloris,  which  Sir 
Harris  has  printed  at  page  312,  vol.  II.,  and  at  page  189, 
vol.  III.,  and  of  "  Ae  day  a  braw  wooer  came  down  the 
lang  glen,"  which  appears  both  at  page  224  of  vol.  II., 
and    t  page  183  of  vol.  III.] 


0  WHA  is  she  that  lo'es  me, 

And  has  my  heart  a-keeping  ? 
0  sweet  is  she  that  lo'es  me, 
As  dews  of  simmer  weeping, 
In  tears  the  rose-buds  steeping ! 
0  that's  the  lassie  of  my  heart, 

My  lassie  ever  dearer  ; 
0  that's  the  queen  of  womankind, 
And  ne'er  a  ane  to  peer  her. 


If  thou  shalt  meet  a  lassie 

In  grace  and  beauty  charming, 

That  e'en  thy  chosen  lassie, 

Erewhile  thy  breast  sae  warming 
Had  ne'er  sic  powers  alarming. 


If  thou  hadst  heard  her  talking. 
And  thy  attentions  plighted. 

That  ilka  body  talking, 

But  her  by  thee  is  slighted. 
And  thou  art  all  delighted. 


If  thou  hast  met  this  fair  one ; 

When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted. 
If  e-^ery  other  fair  one, 

But  her,  thou  hast  deserted, 
And  thou  art  broken-hearted ; 

0  that's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart. 

My  lassie  ever  dearer ; 
0  that's  the  queen  o'  womankina. 
And  ne'er  a  ane  to  peer  her. 


CCXL. 


CALEDONIA. 


Tune — '*  Caledonian  Ilunfs  Delight** 

[There  is  both  knowledge  of  history  and  elegance  ol 
allegory  in  this  singular  lyric :  it  was  first  printed  bj 
Currie.] 


There  was  once  a  day — but  old  Time  then  was 
young — 
That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of  her  line, 
From  some  of  your  northern  deities  sprung, 
(Who    knows    not    that    brave    Caledonia'a 
divine  ?) 
From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her  domain. 
To   hunt,    or   to   pasture,    or   do    what   she 
would : 
Her  heav'nly  relations  there  fixed  her  reign. 
And  pledg'd  her  their  godheads  to  warrant  it 
good. 

II. 
A  lambkin  in  peace,  but  a  lion  in  war. 

The  pride  of  her  kindred  the  heroine  grew ; 
Her  grandsire,  old  Odin,  triumphantly  swore 
"Whoe'er  shall  provoke  thee,  th'  encounter 
shall  rue!" 
With  tillage   or  pasture   at  times  she  would 
sport. 
To  feed  her  fair  flocks  by  her  green  rustling 
corn  ; 
But  chiefly  the  woods  were  her  fav'rite  resort. 
Her  darling  amusement,  the  hounds  and  the 
horn. 


Long  quiet  she  reign'd ;  till  thitherward  steers 

A  flight  of  bold  eagles  from  Adria's  strand : 
Repeated,  successive,  for  many  long  years. 

They  darken'd  the  air,  and  they  plunder'd  the 
land: 
Their  pounces  were  murder,  and  terror  their 
cry. 

They'd  conquer'd  and  ruin'd  a  world  beside ; 
She  took  to  her  hills,  and  her  arrows  let  fly — 

The  daring  invaders  they  fled  or  they  died. 


The  fell  harpy-raven  took  wing  from  the  north, 
The  scourge  of  the  seas,  and  the  dread  of  thfi 
shore ; 

The  wild  Scandinavian  boar  issu'd  forth 
To  wanton  in  carnage,  and  wallow  in  gore ; 


300                                  THE   POETICAL  WORKS 

O'er  countries  and  kingdoms  their  fury  prevail'd, 

0  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass, 

No  arts  could  appease  them,  no  arms  could 

In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass; 

repel ; 

And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 

But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  assail'd, 

That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 

As  Largs  well  can  witness,  and  Loncartie  tell. 

V. 

The  Cameleon-savage  disturbed  her  repose, 

With  tumult,  disquiet,  rebellion,  and  strife; 

CCXLH. 

Frovok'd  beyond  bearing,  at  last  she  arose, 
And  robb'd  him  at  once  of  his  hope  and  his 

THE   FETE   CHAMPETRE. 

life: 

Tune—"  Killiecrankie." 

The  Anglian  lion,  the  terror  of  France, 

[Written  to  introduce  the  name  of  Cunninghame,  of 

Oft  prowling,  ensanguin'd  the  Tweed's  silver 

Enterkin,  to  the   pulilic.    Tents  were   erected   on   th« 

flood: 

banks  of  Ayr,  decorated  with  shruhs,  and  strewn  with 

But,  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian  lance, 

flowers,  most  of  the  n  mies  of  n.)te  in  the  district  wer« 

>                o                rf                               a 

invited,  and  a  splendid  entertainment  took  place;  but  no 

He  learned  to  fear  in  his  own  native  wood. 

dissolution  of  parUaiiienl  fnlliwed  as  was  expected,  and 

the  Lord  of  Enterkin.  who  was  desirous  of  a  seatamoig 

VI. 

the  "  Commons,"  poured  out  his  wine  in  vain.l 

Thus  bold,  independent,  unconquer'd,  and  free, 

Her  bright  course  of  glory  for  ever  shall  run : 

I. 

For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be  ; 

0  WHA  will  to  Saint  Stephen's  house, 

'     I'll  prove  it  from  Euclid  as  clear  as  the  sun : 

To  do  our  errands  there,  man  ? 

Bectangle-triangle,  the  figure  we'll  choose. 

0  wha  will  to  Saint  Stephen's  house. 

The  upright  is  Chance,  and  old  Time  is  the 

0'  th'  merry  lads  of  Ayr,  man  ? 

base  ; 

Or  will  we  send  a  man-o'-law  ? 

But  brave  Caledonia's  the  hypothenuse  ; 

Or  will  we  send  a  sod;er? 

Then  ergo,  she'll   match   them,   and   match 

Or  him  wha  led  o'er  Scotland  a' 

them  always. 

The  meikle  Ursa- Major  ? 

II. 

Come,  will  ye  court  a  noble  lord, 

Or  buy  a  score  o'  lairds,  man  ? 

CCXLI. 

For  worth  and  lionour  pawn  their  word. 

0  LAY  THY  LOOF   IN   MINE,   LASS. 

Their  vote  shall  be  Glencaird's,  man? 

Tune — "  Cordwainer's  3Iarch." 

Ane  gies  them  coin,  ane  gies  them  wine, 

Anither  gies  them  clatter; 

[The  air  to  w^hich  these  verses  were  written,  is  com- 

Anbank, wha  guess'd  the  ladies'  taste. 

monly  played  at  the  Saturnalia  of  the  shoemakers  on 
King  Crispin's  day.    Burns  sent  it  to  the  Museum.] 

He  gies  a  Fete  Champetre. 

I. 
0  LAY  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass, 

III. 
When  Love  and  Beauty  heard  the  news, 

In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass  ; 

The  gay  green-woods  amang,  man  ; 

And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 

Where  gathering  flowers  and  busking  bowers 

That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 

They  heard  the  blackbird's  sang,  man ; 

A  slave  to  love's  xtnbounded  sway, 

A  vow,  they  seal'd  it  with  a  kiss. 

He  aft  has  wrought  me  meikle  wae  ; 

Sir  Politicks  to  fetter. 

But  now  he  is  my  deadly  fae, 

As  theirs  alone,  the  patent-bliss 

Unless  thou  be  my  ain. 

To  hold  a  Fete  Champetre. 

II. 

There's  monie  a  lass  has  broke  my  rest, 

IV. 

Then  mounted  Mirth,  on  gleesome  wing. 

That  for  a  blink  I  hae  lo'ed  best ; 

O'er  hill  and  dale  she  flew,  man ; 

But  thou  art  queen  within  my  breast, 

Ilk  wimpling  burn,  ilk  crystal  spring, 

For  ever  to  remain. 

Ilk  glen  and  shaw  she  knew,  man : 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


301 


She  summon'd  every  social  sprite 
That  sports  by  wood  or  water, 

On  th'  bonny  banks  of  Ayr  to  meet, 
And  keep  this  Fete  Champetre. 


Cauld  Boreas,  wi'  his  boisterous  crew. 

Were  bound  to  stakes  like  kye,  man ; 
And  Cynthia's  car,  o'  silver  fu', 

Clamb  up  the  starry  sky,  man : 
Reflected  beams  dwell  in  the  streams, 

Or  down  the  current  shatter ; 
The  western  breeze  steals  thro'  the  trees, 

To  view  this  Fete  Champetre. 


How  many  a  robe  sae  gaily  floats ! 

What  sparkling  jewels  glance,  man! 
To  Harmony's  enchanting  notes. 

As  moves  the  mazy  dance,  man. 
•f  he  echoing  wood,  the  winding  flood, 

Like  Paradise  did  glitter, 
W^hen  angels  met,  at  Adam's  yett, 

To  hold  their  Fete  Champetre. 


When  Politics  came  there,  to  mix 

And  make  his  ether-stane,  man ! 
He  circled  round  the  magic  ground. 

But  entrance  found  he  nane,  man : 
He  blush'd  for  shame,  he  quat  his  name, 

Forswore  it,  every  letter, 
Wi'  humble  prayer  to  join  and  share 

This  festive  Fete  Champetre. 


CCXLIII. 

HERE'S  A  HEALTH. 

Tune — '■'■Her^s  a  health  to  them  thaCs  awa." 

[The  Charlie  of  this  song  wns  Charles  Fox;  Tammie 
was  Lord  Erskine ;  nml  ArLeod,  tlie  tnuiden  nnme  of  the 
Countess  of  Li)udon,  was  then,  as  now,  a  name  of  influ- 
ence both  in  the  Highlands  and  Lowlands.  The  buff  and 
blue  of  the  Whigs  had  triumphed  over  the  white  rose  of 
Jacobitism  in  the  heart  of  Burns,  when  he  wrote  these 
lerses.] 


Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa ; 
And  wha  winna  wish  guid  luck  to  our  cause, 
May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa' ! 


It's  guid  to  be  merry  and  wise. 
It's  guid  to  be  honest  and  true, 
It's  guid  to  support  Caledonia's  cause, 
And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 


Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 

Here's  a  health  to  Charlie  the  chief  of  the  claw, 

Altho'  that  his  band  be  sma'. 

May  liberty  meet  wi'  success ! 

May  prudence  protect  her  frae  evil ! 

May  tyrants  and  tyranny  tine  in  the  mist, 

And  wander  their  way  to  the  devil ! 


Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa ; 

Here's  a  health  to  Tammie,  the  Norland  laddie, 

That  lives  at  the  lug  o'  the  law ! 

Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read. 

Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write  ! 

There's  nane  ever  fear'd  that  the  truth  should 

be  heard. 
But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indite. 

IT. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 
Here's  Chieftain  M'Leod,  a  chieftain  worth 

gowd, 
Tho'  bred  amang  mountains  o'  snaw ! 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa ; 
And  wha  winna  wish  guid  luck  to  our  cause, 
May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa' ! 


CCXLIV. 

IS  THERE,  FOR  HONEST  PO- 
VERTY. 

Tune — ''For  a'  that,  and  d'  that" 

[In  this  noble  lyric  Burns  has  vindicated  the  nntaral 
right  of  his  species.  4Ie  modestly  says  to  Thomsc::,  "  I 
do  not  give  you  this  song  for  your  book,  let  •nero!y  by 
way  of  vii-e  la  bagatelle;  for  the  piece  .8  really  not 
poetry,  but  will  be  allowed  to  be  two  or  three  pretty 
good  prose  thoughts  inverted  into  rhyme."  Thomsov 
took  the  song,  but  hazarded  no  praise.] 


Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 


502                                  THE   POETICAL   WOKKS                                          I 

The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

looks  and  elegant  forms  of  very  indifferent  charatteni 

We  dare  be  pocr  for  a'  that! 

lend  a  lasting  lustre  to  painting  and  poetry.] 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

I. 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a*  that ; 

Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigie-bum, 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

And  blithe  awakes  the  morrow; 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that ! 

But  a'  the  pride  o'  spring's  return 

II. 

Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

II. 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

I  see  the  flowers  and  spreading  trees 

A  man's  a  man,  for  a'  that ! 

I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing ; 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

But  what  a  weary  wight  can  please, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 

And  care  his  bosom  wiinging  ? 

The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

III. 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that ! 

Fain,  fain  would  I  my  griefs  impart. 

III. 

Yet  dare  na  for  your  anger ; 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd — a  lord. 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that; 

If  I  conceal  it  langer. 

Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

IV. 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that : 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me, 
If  thou  shalt  love  anither. 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that. 

The  man  of  independent  mind. 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

IV. 

When  yon  green  leaves  fade  frae  the  tree, 
Around  my  grave  they'll  wither. 

A.  king  can  make  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that. 

But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

CCXLVI. 

Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa*  that ! 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

0  LASSIE,  ART  THOU  SLEEPING  YET. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 

Tune — "  Let  me  in  this  ae  night.'* 

The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

[The  thoughts  of  Burns,  it  is  said,  wandered  to  the  fair 

Mrs.  Riddel,  of  Woodleigh  Park,  while  he  composed  thi« 

V. 

song  for  Thomson.    Tlie  idea  is  taken  from  an  old  .'yriCj 

of  more  spirit  than  decorum.] 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may — 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that — 

I. 

That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

0  Lassie,  art  thou  sleeping  yet. 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that  ; 

Or  art  thou  waking,  I  would  wit  ? 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

For  love  has  bound  me  hand  and  foot. 

It's  comin'  yet  for  a'  that, 

And  I  would  fain  be  in,  jo. 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

0  let  me  in  this  ae  night, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that ! 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 

For  pity's  sake  this  ae  night, 
0  rise  and  let  me  in,  jo ! 

CCXLY. 

II. 

Thou  hear'st  the  winter  wind  and  weell 

CRAIGIE-BURN   WOOD. 

Nae  star  blinks  thro'  the  driving  sleet: 

[Craigie-burn  Wood  was  written  for  George  Thomson : 

Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet, 

Jbe  heroine  was  Jean  Loriraer.    How  a'ten  the  blooming 

And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 

OF   llOBEET   BURNS.                                         305    1 

III. 

CCXLVIII. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blaws, 

Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa's ; 

THE   DUMFRIES   VOLUNTEERS. 

The  cauldness  o'  thy  heart's  the  cause 

Tune — ♦'  Pitsh  about  the  jorum." 

Of  a'  my  grief  and  pain,  jo. 

[This  national  song  was  composed  in  April,  1795.  ThI 

0  let  me  in  this  ae  night. 

poet  had  been  at  a  public  meeting,  where  lie  was  Icsi 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 

joyous  than  usual :  as  something  had  been  expected  fioir 

For  pity's  sake  this  ae  night, 

him,  he  made  these  verses,  when  lie  went  home,  and  sent 
them,  with   his  compliments,  to  Mr.  Jackson,  editor  ot 

0  rise  and  let  me  in,  jo  ! 

the  Dumfries  Journal.    The  original,  through  the  kind- 

ness of  my  friend,  James  Milligan,  Esq.,  is  now  before 
me.] 

I. 

Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat, 

Then  let  the  loons  beware.  Sir, 

ccxLvn. 

There's  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas. 

0  TELL  NA  ME  0'  WIND  AND  RAIN. 

And  volunteers  on  shore.  Sir. 

The  Nith  shall  run  to  Corsincon, 

[The  poet's  thoughts,  as  rendered  in  the  lady's  answer, 

And  Criffel  sink  in  Solway, 

are,  at  all  events,  not  borrowed  from  tlie  sentiments  ex- 

pressed by  Mrs.  Riddel,  alluded  to  in  song  CCXXXVIL; 

Ere  we  permit  a  foreign  foe 

tliere  she  is  tender  and  forgiving  :  here  she  is  stern  and 
sold.] 

On  British  ground  to  rally ! 

I. 

II. 

0  let  us  not,  like  snarling  tykes, 

0  TELL  na  me  o'  wind  and  rain, 

In  wrangling  be  divided  ; 

Upbraid  na  me  wi'  cauld  disdain  ! 

Till  slap  come  in  an  unco  loon 

Gae  back  the  gate  ye  cam  again. 

And  wi'  a  rung  decide  it. 

I  winna  let  you  in,  jo. 

Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true, 

I  tell  you  now  this  ae  night, 

Amang  oursels  united ; 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night. 

For  never  but  by  British  hands 

And  ance  for  a'  this  ae  night. 

Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted  ! 

I  winna  let  you  in,  jo ! 

III. 

II. 

The  kettle  o'  the  kirk  and  state, 

The  snellest  blast,  at  mirkest  hours. 

Perhaps  a  clout  may  fail  in't ; 

That  round  the  pathless  wand'rer  pours, 

But  deil  a  foreign  tinkler  looa 

Is  nocht  to  what  poor  she  endures. 

Shall  ever  ca'  a  nail  in't. 

That's  trusted  faithless  man,  jo. 

Our  fathers'  bluid  the  kettle  bought, 

Ill 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it ; 

By  heaven  !  the  sacrilegious  dog 

The  sweetest  flower  that  deck'd  the  mead, 

Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it. 

Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed : 

Let  simple  maid  the  lesson  read, 

IV. 

The  weird  may  be  her  ain,  jo. 

The  wretch  that  wad  a  tyrant  own. 

IV. 

And  the  wretch  his  true-bom  brother, 

Who  would  set  the  mob  aboon  the  throne, 

The  bird  that  charm'd  his  summer-day, 

May  they  be  damned  together  !   ■ 

Is  now  the  cruel  fowler's  prey ; 

Who  will  not  sing,  "God  save  the  King," 

Let  witless,  trusting  woman  say 

Shall  hang  as  high's  the  steeple ; 

How  aft  her  fate's  the  same,  jo. 

But  while  we  sing,  "  God  save  the  King,** 

I  tell  you  now  this  ae  night, 

We'll  ne'er  forget  the  people. 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 

And  ance  for  a'  this  ae  night, 
I  winna  let  you  in,  jo  ! 

304                                    THE    POETICAL   WORKS 

Can  I  cease  to  care  ? 

CCXLIX. 

Can  I  cease  to  languish  ? 

ADDRESS   TO   THE   WOOD-LARK. 

While  my  darling  fair 

Is  on  the  couch  of  anguish  t 

Tune — "  WhereHl  bonnie  Ann  lie." 

[The  old  song  to  the  same  air  is  yet  re  mem  be  red  :  but 

II. 

,lie  liiimour  is  richer  tlmn  the  delii-.-icy  ;  the  same  may  Le 

Every  hope  is  fled, 

said  of  many  of  the  line  liearty  lyrics  of  the  elder  davs 

Every  fear  is  terror  ; 

of  Caledonia.     These  verses  were  composed  in  May, 

1795,  for  Thomson.] 

Slumber  even  I  dread, 

I. 

Every  dream  is  horror. 

0  STAY,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay  ! 

III. 

Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray ; 

Hear  me,  Pow'rs  divine  ! 

A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay, 

Oh,  in  pity  hear  me  ! 

Thy  soothing  fond  complraining. 

Take  aught  else  of  mine, 

But  my  Chloris  spare  me  I 

II. 

Long,  long  the  night, 

Again,  again  that  tender  part, 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow, 

That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 

While  my  soul's  delight 

For  surely  that  would  touch  her  heart, 

Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 

Wha  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 

III. 
Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind, 

And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind? 

CCLI. 

Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd, 

CALEDONIA. 

Sic  notes  o'  woe  could  wauken. 

Tnne—''  Humours  of  Glen." 

IV. 

[Love  of  country  often  mingles  in  the  lyric  strains  of 

Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care ; 

Burns  with  his  personal  attachments,  and  in  few  more 
beautifully  than  in  the  following,  written  for  Thomson 

0'  speechless  grief  and  dark  despair : 

the  heroine  was  Mrs.  Burns.] 

For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair ! 

Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 

I. 

Theib  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 

reckon. 

Where   bright-beaming    summers   exalt    the 

perfume  ; 

Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green  brockan, 

CCL. 

Wi'  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow 

ON  CHLORIS   BEING  ILL. 

broom : 

Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers. 

Tune— ".4y  waktn\  0." 

Where  the  blue-bell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly 

[Kn  old  and  once  popular  lyric  suggested  this  brief  and 

unseen ; 

jappy  song  for  Thomson  :  some  of  the  verses  deserve  to 

For   there,    lightly  tripping   amang   the   wild 

be  hel  J  in  remembrance. 

flowers. 

Ay  waking,  oh, 

A  listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 

Waking  ay  and  weary; 

Sleep  I  canna  get 

II. 

For  thinking  o'  my  dearie.] 

Tho'  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny  valleys. 

I. 

And  cauld  Caledonia's  blast  on  the  wave ; 

Long,  long  the  night, 

Their  sweet-scented  woodlands  that  skirt  the 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow, 

proud  palace, 

While  my  soul's  delight 

What  are  they?— The  haunt  of   the  tyrant 

Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 

and  slave  I 

OF   KOliEKT   BUiiNS. 


305 


The  slave's   spicy  forests,   and  gold-bubbling 
fountains, 
The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi'  disdain  ; 
He  wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his  moun- 
tains, 
Save  love's  willing  fetters,  the  chains  o'  his 
Jean. 


CCLH. 

'TWAS  NA  HER  BONNIE  BLUE  EEN. 

Tune — **  Laddie,  lie  near  me." 

[Though  the  lady  who  inspired  these  verses  is  called 
Mary  by  the  poet,  such,  says  tradition,  was  not  her 
name  :  yet  tradition,  even  in  this,  wavers,  when  it  avers 
one  vvliile  that  Mrs.  Riddel,  and  at  another  time  that 
Jean  I^orimer  was  the  heroine.] 

I. 

'TwAs  na  her  bonnie  blue  een  was  my  ruin ; 
Fair  tho'  she  be,  that  was  ne'er  my  undoing: 
*Twas  the  dear  smile  when  naebody  did  mind  us, 
'Twas  the  bewitching,   sweet  stown  glance  o' 
kindness. 


Sair  do  I  fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 
Sair  do  I  fear  that  despair  maun  abide  me ! 
But  tho'  fell  fortune  should  fate  us  to  sever, 
Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  for  ever. 


Mary,  I'm  thine  wi'  a  passion  sincerest, 
And  thou  hast  plighted  me  love  o'  the  dearest ! 
And  thou'rt  the  angel  that  never  can  alter — 
Sooner  the  sun  in  his  motion  would  falter. 


CCLIII. 

HOW  CRUEL  ARE   THE   PARENTS. 

Tune — ^^  John  Andertony  my  jo." 

["I  nm  at  this  moment,"  says  Bums  to  Thomson, 
wh(n  he  sent  him  this  song, '«  holding  high  converse  with 
the  Muses,  and  have  not  a  word  to  tlirow  a\vny  on  a  pro- 
saic dog,  such  as  you  are."  Yet  there  is  less  than  the 
poet's  usual  inspiration  iu  this  lyric,  fur  it  ia  altered  from 
Kn  English  one.] 

I. 

How  cruel  are  the  parents 
Who  riches  only  prize, 


And,  to  the  wealthy  booby, 
Poor  woman  sacrifice  ! 

Meanwhile  the  hapless  daughter 
Has  but  a  choice  of  strife ; 

To  shun  a  tyrant  father's  hate, 
Become  a  wretched  wife. 


The  ravening  hawk  pursuing. 

The  trembling  dove  thus  flies, 
To  shun  impelling  ruin 

Awhile  her  pinions  tries ; 
Till  of  escape  despairing, 

No  shelter  or  retreat. 
She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer. 

And  drops  beneath  his  feet ! 


CCLIV. 
MARK  YONDER   POMP. 

Tune — ^^  Deil  tak  the  wars." 

[Burns  tells  Thomson,  in  the  letter  enclosing  this  song, 
that  he  is  in  a  high  fit  of  poetizing,  provided  he  is  not 
cured  by  tlie  strait-waistcoat  of  criticism.  "  You  see," 
said  lie,  "how  I  answer  your  orders;  your  tailor  could 
not  be  more  punctual."  This  strain  in  honourof  Chloria 
is  original  in  conception,  but  wants  tlie  fine  lyrical  flow 
of  some  of  his  other  compositions.] 


Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion 
Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride : 

But  when  compar'd  with  real  passion. 
Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 
What  ar«^  the  showy  treasures  ? 
What  ar«  the  noisy  pleasures  ? 

The  gay  gaudy  glare  of  vanity  and  art . 
The  polish'd  jewel's  blaze 
May  draw  the  wond'ring  gaze, 
And  courtly  grandeur  bright 
The  fancy  may  delight, 

But  never,  never  can  come  near  the  heart. 


But,  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris 

In  simplicity's  array  ; 
Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  opening  flower  is. 
Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day ; 
0  then  the  heart  alarming, 
And  all  resistless  charming, 


80b 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


In  Love's  delightful  fetters  she  chains  the  wil- 
ling soul ! 

Ambition  would  disown 

The  world's  imperial  crown, 

Even  Avarice  would  deny 

His  worship'd  deity. 
And  feel  thro'  every  vein  Love's  raptures  roll. 


CCLV. 

THIS   IS   NO   MY  AIN   LASSIE. 

Tune — "  This  is  no  my  ain  house." 

[Though  composed  to  the  order  of  Thomson,  and  there- 
fore less  likely  to  be  the  offspring  of  unsolicited  inspira- 
tion, this  is  one  of  the  happiest  of  modern  songs.  AVhen 
the  poet  wrote  it,  he  seems  to  have  been  beside  the  "  fair 
dame  at  whose  shrine,"  he  said,  "I,  the  priest  of  the 
Nine,  offer  up  the  incense  of  Parnassus."] 

I. 

0  THIS  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 

Fair  tho'  the  lassie  be ; 

0  weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie. 

Kind  love  is  in  her  e'e. 

I  see  a  form,  I  see  a  face, 

Ye  weel  may  wi'  the  fairest  place : 

It  wants,  to  me,  the  witching  grace. 

The  kind  love  that's  in  her  e'e. 


She's  bonnie,  blooming,  straight,  and  tall, 
And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  thrall  ; 
And  ay  it  charms  my  very  saul, 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  e'e. 


A  thief  sae  pawkie  is  my  Jean, 
To  steal  a  blink,  by  a'  unseen ; 
But  gleg  as  light  are  lovers'  een, 
When  kind  love  is  in  the  e'e. 


It  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks, 
It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks  ; 
But  weel  the  watching  lover  marks 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  e'e. 
0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 
Eair  tho'  the.  lassie  be  ; 
.0  weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie^ 
Blind  love  is  in  her  e'e. 


CCLVI. 

NOW  SPRING    HAS    CLAD    THE 
GROVE   IN  GREEN. 

TO   MR.    CUNNINGHAM. 

[Compored  in  reference  to  a  love  disappointment  of  I  hi 
poet's  friend,  Alexander  Cunningham,  which  al»5  otca 
sioned  the  song  beginning, 

"  Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore."] 


Now  spring  has  clad  the  grove  in  green, 

And  strew'd  the  lea  wi'  jBowers : 
The  furrow'd  waving  corn  is  seen 

Rejoice  in  fostering  showers ; 
'While  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 

Their  sorrows  to  forego, 
0  why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 

The  weary  steps  of  woe  ? 


The  trout  within  yon  wimpling  burn 

Glides  swift,  a  silver  dart, 
And  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn 

Defies  the  angler's  art ; 
My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream, 

That  wanton  trout  was  I ; 
But  love,  wi'  unrelenting  beam, 

Has  scorch'd  my  fountains  dry. 


The  little  flow'ret's  peaceful  lot, 

In  yonder  cliflF  that  grows, 
Which,  save  the  linnet's  flight,  I  wot, 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows. 
Was  mine ;  till  love  has  o'er  me  past. 

And  blighted  a'  my  bloom. 
And  now  beneath  the  with'ring  blast 

My  youth  and  joy  consume. 


The  waken'd  lav'rock  warbling  springs 

And  climbs  the  early  sky. 
Winnowing  blythe  her  dewy  wings 

In  morning's  rosy  eye ; 
As  little  reckt  I  sorrow's  power, 

Until  the  flow'ry  snare 
0'  witching  love,  in  luckless  hour. 

Made  me  the  thrall  o'  care. 


0  had  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows. 

Or  Afric's  burning  zone, 
Wi'  man  and  nature  leagu'd  my  foes, 

So  Peggy  ne'er  I'd  known! 


OF   KOBEllT   BUliNS. 


307 


The  wretch  whase  doom  is,  **  hope  nae  mair." 

What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell ! 
Within  whase  bosom,  save  despair, 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell. 


CCLVII. 
C   BONNIE   WAS   YON  ROSY  BRIER. 

[To  Jean  Lorimer,  the  heroine  of  this  song,  Burns  pre- 
Beritei  a  copy  of  the  last  edition  of  his  poems,  that  of 
1793,  with  a  dedicatory  inscription,  in  which  he  moral- 
izes upon  her  youth,  her  beauty,  and  steadfast  friendship, 
and  signs  himself  Coila.] 


0  BONNIE  was  yon  rosy  brier, 

That  blooms  sae  far  frae  haunt  o'  man, 
And  bonnie  she,  and  ah,  how  dear ! 

It  shaded  frae  the  e'enin  sun. 


Yon  rosebuds  in  the  morning  dew 

How  pure,  amang  the  leaves  sae  green 

But  purer  was  the  lover's  vow 
They  witness'd  in  their  shade  yestreen. 


All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower, 

That  crimson  rose,  how  sweet  and  fair ! 

But  love  is  far  a  sweeter  flower 
Amid  life's  thorny  path  o'  care. 


The  pathless  wild,  and  wimpling  burn, 
Wi'  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine  ; 

And  I  the  world,  nor  wish,  nor  scorn; 
Its  joys  and  griefs  alike  resign. 


CCLVIII. 

FORLORN,   MY   LOVE,   NO   COM- 
FORT NEAR. 
Tune — "  Let  me  in  this  ae 


["How  do  you  like  the  foregoing?"  Burns  asks 
Thomson,  after  having  copied  this  song  for  his  collection. 
"I  have  written  it  within  this  hour:  so  much  for  the 
ipeed  of  my  Pegasus :  but  what  say  you  to  his  bottom  ?"] 


Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 
Far,  far  from  thee,  I  wander  here ; 
Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe 
At  which  I  most  repine,  love. 


0  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me ; 
But  near,  near,  near  me  ; 
How  kindly  thou  wouldst  cheer  me. 
And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love 


Around  me  scowls  a  wintry  sky, 
That  blasts  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy 
And  shelter,  shade,  nor  home  have  I, 
Save  in  those  arms  of  thine,  lovo. 


Cold,  alter'd  friendship's  cruel  part, 
To  poison  Fortune's  ruthless  dart, 
Let  me  not  break  thy  faithful  heart, 
And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 


But  dreary  tho'  the  moments  fleet, 
0  let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet  I 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Chloris  shine,  love. 
0  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me  ; 
But  near,  near,  near  me ; 
How  kindly  thou  wouldst  cheer  me, 
And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love. 


CCLIX. 

LAST    MAY   A   BRAW  WOOER. 

Tune — '*  The  Lothian  Lassie." 

["  Gateslack,"  says  Burns  to  Thomson,  "  is  the  name 
of  a  particular  place,  a  kind  of  passage  among  the  Low- 
ther  Hills,  on  the  confines  of  Dumfrieshire  :  Dalgarnock, 
is  also  the  name  of  a  romantic  spot  near  the  Nith,  where 
are  still  a  ruined  church  and  buri.il-ground  "  To  this,  it 
may  be  added  that  Dalgarnock  kirk-yard  is  the  scene 
where  the  author  of  Waverley  finds  Old  Mcrtality  repair* 
ing  the  Cameronian  grave-stones.] 

I. 
Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang 
glen. 
And  sair  wi'  his  love  he  did  deave  me ; 
I  said  there  was  naething  I  hated  like  men. 
The  deuce  gae  wi'm,  to  believe,  believe  me. 
The  deuce  gae  wi'm,  to  believe  me  ! 


He  spak  o'  the  darts  in  my  bonnie  black  een, 
And  vow'd  for  my  love  he  was  dying ; 

I  said  he  might  die  when  he  liked  for  Jean, 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for  lying, 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lyin«  ! 


308 


THE    POETICAL   WORKS 


III. 

charming  sensations  of  the  toothache,  so  have  not  a  word 

A  weel-stocked  mailen — himsel'  for  the  laird — 

to  spare— such  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  rhythm  of  this  air 

And  marriage  aif-hand,  were  his  proffers : 

that  I  find  it  impossible  to  mnkeanotlier  stanza  to  suit  it.' 
This  is  the  last  of  his  strains  in  honour  of  Ciiiuris. 

I  never  loot   on  that  I  kenn'd  it,  or  car'd, 

But  thought  I  may  hae  waur  offers,  waur 

I. 

offers. 

Why,  why  tell  thy  lover, 

But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers. 

Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy: 

Why,  why  undeceive  him, 

IV. 

And  give  all  his  hopes  the  lie  ? 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ?      In  a  fortnight  or 

less — 

II. 

The  deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her ! 

0  why,  while  fancy  raptured^  slumbers. 

He  up  the  Gateslack  to  my  black  cousin  Bess, 

Chloris,  Chloris  all  the  theme, 

Guess  ye  how,    the  jad  !  I  could  bear  her, 

Why,  why  wouldst  thou,  cruel, 

could  bear  her, 

Wake  thy  lover  from  his  dream  ? 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad !  I  could  bear  her. 

IV. 

But  a'  the  niest  week  as  I  fretted  wi'  care, 

CCLXI. 

I  gaed  to  the  tryste  o'  Dalgarnock, 

THE  HIGHLAND  WIDOW'S  LAMENT. 

And  wha  but  my  fine  fickle  lover  was  there ! 

[This  song  is  said  to  be  Burns's  version  of  a  GneSc 

I  glowr'd  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock,  a  warlock, 

lament  for  the  ruin  which  followed  the  rebellioz  of  tJi* 

I  glowr'd  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock. 

year  1745  :  he  sent  it  to  the  Museum.] 

n. 

But  owre  my  left  shouther  I  gae  him  a  blink. 

I. 
Oh  !  I  am  come  to  the  low  countrie. 

Lest  neebors  might  say  I  was  saucy ; 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie ! 

My  wooer  he  caper'd  as  he'd  been  in  drink, 

Without  a  penny  in  my  purse, 

And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie. 

To  buy  a  meal  to  me. 

And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie. 

II. 

VII. 

It  was  na  sae  in  the  Highland  hills, 

I  spier'd  for  my  cousin  fu'  couthy  and  sweet, 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie! 

Gin  she  had  recovered  her  hearin', 

Nae  woman  in  the  country  wide 

And  how  my  auld  shoon  suited  her  shauchled 

Sae  happy  was  as  me. 

feet. 

But,    heavens!    how   he   fell   a   swearin',    a 

III. 

swearin'. 

For  then  I  had  a  score  o'  kye, 

But,  heavens !  how  he  fell  a  swearin'. 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie ! 

Feeding  on  yon  hills  so  high, 

VIII. 

And  giving  milk  to  me. 

He  begged,  for  Gudesake,  I  wad  be  his  wife. 

Or  else  I  wad  kill  him  wi'  sorrow ; 

IV. 

Bo,  e'en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life, 

And  there  I  had  three  score  o'  yowes, 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to-mor- 

Och-on, och-on,  och-rie! 

row, 

Skipping  on  yon  bonnie  knowes. 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to  morrow. 

And  casting  woo'  to  me. 

V. 

I  was  the  happiest  of  a'  the  clan, 

Sair,  sair,  may  I  repine  ; 

CCLX. 

For  Donald  was  the  brawest  lad, 

C  H  L  0  R  I  S. 

And  Donald  he  was  mine. 

Tune — "  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight" 

VI. 

["  I  am  at  present,"  says  Burns  to  Thomson,  when  he 

Till  Charlie  Stewart  cam'  at  last. 

communicated  these  verses,  "  quite  occupied  with  the 

Sae  far  to  set  us  free  ; 

OF   ROBERT   BURNS.                                        30^     1 

My  Donald's  arm  was  wanted  then, 

And  dawin'  it  is  dreary 

For  Scotland  and  for  me. 

"When  birks  are  bare  at  Yule. 

VII. 

II. 

Their  waefu'  fate  what  need  I  tell, 

0  bitter  blaws  the  e'enin'  blast 

Right  to  the  wrang  did  yield : 

When  bitter  bites  the  frost. 

My  Donald  and  liis  country  fell 

And  in  the  mirk  and  dreary  drift 

Upon  Culloden's  field. 

The  hills  and  glens  are  lost 

VIII. 

Oh !  I  am  come  to  the  low  countrie, 

III. 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie ! 

Ne'er  sae  murky  blew  the  night 

Nae  woman  in  the  world  wide 

That  drifted  o'er  the  hill, 

Sae  wretched  now  as  me. 

But  a  bonnie  Peg-a-Ramsey 

Gat  grist  to  her  mill. 

CCLXII. 

TO  GENERAL  DUMOURIER. 

CCLXIV. 

PARODY   ON    KOBIN    ADAIR. 

THERE   WAS   A  BONNIE   LASS. 

[Burns  wrote  this  '« Welcome"  on  the  unexpected  de- 
'ectiou  of  General  Dumourier.j 

[A  snatch  of  an  old  strain,  trimmed  up  a  little  for  tk 

Museum.] 

I. 

Tou're  welcome  to  despots,  Dumourier  ; 
You're  welcome  to  despots,  Dumourier  ; 

I. 

There  was  a  bonnie  lass, 

How  does  Dampiere  do? 
Aye,  and  Bournonville,  too  ? 
Why  did  they  not  come  along  with  you,  Du- 

And a  bonnie,  bonnie  lass. 
And  she  lo'ed  her  bonnie  laddie  dear; 

Till  war's  loud  alarms 

Tore  her  laddie  frae  her  arms, 

mourier  ? 

II. 

Wi'  mony  a  sigh  and  tear. 

I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier ; 

II. 

I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier ; 

I  will  fight  France  with  you, 

Over  sea,  over  shore. 

I  will  take  my  chance  with  you ; 

Where  the  cannons  loudly  roar, 

By  my  soul  I'll  dance  a  dance  with  you,  Dumou- 
rier. 

He  still  was  a  stranger  to  fear ; 

And  nocht  could  him  quell, 

III. 

Or  his  bosom  assail, 

Th<^n  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier  ; 

But  the  bonnie  lass  he  lo'ed  sae  dear. 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumour'er  ; 

Then  let  us  fight  about, 

Till  freedom's  spark  is  out, 

Then  we'll  be  damn'd,  no  doubt,  Dumourier. 

CCLXV. 

0  MALLY"S  MEEK,  MALLY'S  SW'=''"" 

[Burns,  it  is  said,  composed  these  verses,  on  n  eetii.g 

ccLxni. 

a  country  girl,  with  her  shoes  and  stockings  in  her  .ap 

P  E  G-A-R  A  M  S  E  Y. 

walking   lioniewards   from  a   Dumfries   fair.      lie  wai 

struck  with  her  he.iuty,  and  as  beautifully  has  he  rec  rde< 

Tune—"  Cauld  m  the  e'enin  blast." 

it.    This  was  his  last  communication  to  the  M  u^^m.] 

[Most  of  til  is  song  is  old :  Burns  gave  it  a  brushing  for 

I. 

Kie  Museum.] 

0  Mally's  meek,  Mally's  sweet, 

I. 

Mally's  modest  and  discreet, 

Cauld  is  the  e'enin'  blast 

Mally's  rare,  Mally's  fair. 

0'  Boreas  o'er  the  pool. 

Mally's  every  way  complete. 

310                                   THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

As  I  was  walking  up  the  street, 

But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi'  Geordie  im- 

A barefit  maid  I  chanc'd  to  meet; 

prest, 

But  0  the  road  was  very  hard 

The  langer  ye  hae  them  —  the  mair  they're 

For  that  fair  maiden's  tender  feet. 

carest. 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 

II. 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher ; 

rt  were  mair  meet  that  those  fine  feet 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher. 

Were  weel  lac'd  up  in  silken  shoon, 

The  nice  yellow  guineas  for  me. 

And  'twere  more  fit  that  she  should  sit, 

Within  yon  chariot  gilt  aboon. 

III. 
Her  yellow  hair,  beyond  compare, 

Comes  trinkling  down  her  swan-white  neck  ; 

CCLXVll. 

And  her  two  eyes,  like  stars  in  skies, 

JESSY. 

Would  keep  a  sinking  ship  frae  wreck. 

Tune — ^^  Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa** 

0  Mally's  meek,  Mally's  sweet, 

Mally's  modest  and  discreet, 

[Written  in  honour  of  Miss  Jessie  Lewars,  now  Mra 

Mally's  rare,  Mally's  fair, 

Thomson.      Her   tender    and    daughter-like    attentiong 
soothed  the  last  hours  of  tlie  dying  poet,  and  if  immortality 

Mally's  every  way  complete. 

can  be  considered  a  recompense,  she  has  been  rewarded.J 
I. 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  i  lo'e  dear  ; 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear; 

CCLXVI. 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers 

meet. 

HEY   FOR  A    LASS   WI'   A  TOCHER. 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear— Jessy ! 

Tune — ''  Balinamona  Ora." 

1 1. 

[Communicated  to  Thomson,  17th  of  February,  1796,  to 

Altho'  thou  maun  never.be  mine. 

06  printed  as  part  of  the  poet's  contribution  to  the  Irish 
nelodies  :  he  calls  it  "a  kind  of  rhapsody."] 

Altho'  even  hope  is  denied ; 

'Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

I. 

Then  aught  in  the  world  beside— Jessy  I 

AwA  wi'  your  witchcraft  o'  beauty's  alarms, 

The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your  arms : 

III. 

0,  gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o'  charms. 

I  mourn  through  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 

0,  gie  me  the  lass  wi'  the  weel-stockit  farms. 

As,  hopeless,  I  muse  on  thy  charms : 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 

But  welcome  the  dream  o'  sweet  slumber. 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher ; 

For  then  I  am  lockt  in  thy  arms — Jessy  1 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 

The  nice  yellow  guineas  for  me. 

IV. 

I  guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile. 

II. 

I  guess  by  the  love  rolling  e'e ; 

Toir  beauty's   a   flower,  in  the  morning  that 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession 

blows. 

'Gainst  fortune's  fell  cruel  decree  ? — Jessy  \ 

And  withers  the  faster,  the  faster  it  grows  ; 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear ; 

But  the  rapturous  charm  o'  the  bonuie  green 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear ; 

knowes. 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  loven 

Ilk  spring  they're  new  deckit  wi'  bonnie  white 

meet, 

yowes. 

III. 
And  e'en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom  has  blest, 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy  I 

The  brightest  o'  beauty  may  cloy  when  possest ; 

OF   ROBERT  BURNS. 


311 


CCLXVIII. 

FAIREST  MAID  ON  DEVON  BANKS. 

Tune — "  Eothemurche." 

[Or.  the  12th  of  July,  1796,  as  B\xtu3  lay  dj'lng  at  Brow, 
on  tk*  S".  way,  his  thoughts  wandered  to  early  days,  and 
tiili  song,  the  .ast  he  was  to  measure  in  this  world,  was 
dedicated  to  Charlotte  Hamilton,  the  maid  of  the  Devon.] 

I. 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks, 
Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 

Wilt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside. 

And  smile  as  thou  were  wont  to  do  ? 


Full  well  thou  know'st  I  love  thee,  dear ' 
Could'st  thou  to  malice  lend  an  ear  ! 
01  did  not  love  exclaim  "  Forbear, 
Nor  use  a  faithful  lover  so." 


Then  come,  thou  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Those  wonted  smiles,  0  let  me  share  ; 
And  by  thy  beauteous  self  I  swear, 
No  love  but  thine  my  heart  shall  know. 
Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks, 

Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 
Wilt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside, 

And  smile  as  thou  were  wont  to  do  ? 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


TO  WILLIAM  BURNESS. 

(This  was  written  by  Burns  in  his  twenty-third  year, 
when  learning  flax-dressing  in  Irvine,  and  is  the  earliest 
of  his  letters  which  has  reached  us.  It  has  much  of  the 
(scriptural  deference  to  paternal  authority,  and  more  of 
the  Conr.plete  Letter  Writer  than  we  look  for  in  an  origi- 
nal mind.] 

Irvine,  Dec.  27,  1781. 
Honoured  Sir, 
I  HAVE  purposely  delayed  writing  in  the  hope 
that  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
on  New-Year's  day ;  but  work  comes  so  hard 
upon  us,  that  I  do  not  choose  to  be  absent  on 
that  account,  as  well  as  for  some  other  little 
reasons  which  I  shall  tell  you  at  meeting.  My 
health  is  nearly  the  same  as  when  you  were 
here,  only  my  sleep  is  a  little  sounder,  and  on 
the  wh^le  I  am  rather  better  than  otherwise, 
though  I  mend  by  very  slow  degrees.  The 
weakness  of  my  nerves  has  so  debilitated  my 
niud,  that  I  dare  neither  review  past  wants,  nor 
look  forward  into  futurity  ;  for  the  least  anxiety 
or  perturbation  in  my  breast  produces  most  un- 
happy effects  on  my  whole  frame.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  when  for  an  hour  or  two  my  spirits  are 
alightened,  I  glimmer  a  little  into  futurity  ;  but 
my  principal,  and  indeed  my  only  pleasurable 
employment  is  looking  backwards  and  forwards 
Va  a  moral  and  religious  way ;  I  am  quite  trans- 


ported at  the  thought,  that  ere  long,  perhaps 
very  soon,  I  shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  all  the 
pains,  and  uneasiness,  and  disquietudes  of  this 
weary  life :  for  I  assure  you  I  am  heartily  tired 
of  it ;  and  if  I  do  not  very  much  deceive  my- 
self, I  could  contentedly  and  gladly  resign  it. 

"The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  at  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come."l 

It  is  for  this  reason  I  am  more  pleased  with  the 
15th,  16th,  and  17th  verses  of  the  7th  chapter 
of  Revelations,  than  with  any  ten  times  as 
many  verses  in  the  whole  Bible,  and  would  not 
exchange  the  noble  enthusiasm  with  which  they 
inspire  me  for  all  that  this  world  has  to  offer. 
As  for  this  world,  I  despair  of  ever  making  a 
figure  in  it.  I  am  not  formed  for  the  bustle  of 
the  busy,  nor  the  flutter  of  the  gay.  I  shall 
never  again  be  capable  of  entering  into  such 
scenes.  Indeed  I  am  altogether  unconcerned 
at  the  thoughts  of  this  life.  I  foresee  that  po- 
verty and  obscvrrity  probably  await  me,  and  1 
am  in  some  measure  prepared,  and  daily  pre- 
paring to  meet  them.  I  have  but  just  time  And 
paper  to  return  you  my  grateful  thanks  for  the 
lessons  of  virtue  and  piety  you  have  given  me, 
which  were  too  much  neglected  at  the  time  of 
giving  them,  but  which  I  hope  have  been  re- 
membered ere  it  is  yet  too  late.  Present  my 
dutiful  respects  to  my  mother,  and  my  compli 

1  Pope.    Essay  on  Man 


312 


GENEIIAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


ments  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Muir;  aud  with  wishing 
you  a  merry  New- Year's  day,  I  shall  conclude. 
I  am,  honoured  sir,  your  dutiful  son, 

llOBEIlT  BURNESS. 

P.  S.    My  meal  is  nearly  out,  but  I  am  going 
to  borrow  till  I  get  more. 


II. 
TO   MR.   JOHN   MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 

STABLES-INN  BUILDrNGS,  LONDON. 

[John  Murdoch,  one  of  the  poefs  early  teachers,  re- 
moved from  the  west  of  Scntl  md  to  London,  where  he 
lived  to  a  good  old  age,  and  loved  to  talk  of  the  pious 
William  Durness  and  his  eminent  son.] 

Lochlea,  15th  January/,  1783. 
Dear  Sir, 
As  I  have  an  opportunity  of  sending  you  a 
letter  without  putting  you  to  that  expense 
which  any  production  of  mine  would  but  ill 
repay,  I  embrace  it  with  pleasure,  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  not  forgotten,  nor  ever  will  forget, 
the  many  obligations  I  lie  under  to  your  kind- 
ness and  friendship. 

I  do  not  doubt,  Sir,  but  you  will  wish  to  know 
what  has  been  the  result  of  all  the  pains  of  an 
indulgent  father,  and  a  masterly  teacher ;  and 
I  wish  I  could  gratify  your  curiosity  with  such 
a  recital  as  you  would  be  pleased  with  ;  but 
that  is  what  I  am   afraid  will  not  be  the  case. 
I  have,   indeed,   kept  pietty  clear   of   vicious 
habits ;  and,  in  this  respect,  I  hope,  my  conduct 
will  not  disgrace  the  education  I  have  gotten  ; 
but,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  I  am  most  miserably 
deficient.     One  would  have  thought  that,  bred 
as  I  have  been,  under  a  father,  who  has  figured 
pretty  well  as  wn  ho-mme  des  affaires,  I  might  have 
been,  what  the  world   calls,  a  pushing,  active 
fellow  ;  but  to  tell  you  the  truth.  Sir,  there  is 
hardly  anything  more  my  reverse.     I  seem  to 
be  one  sent  into  the  world  to  see  and  observe  ; 
nni  I  very  easily  compound  with  the  knave  who 
tricks   me  of  my  money,  if  there  be   anything 
original  about  him,  which  shows  me  human  na- 
ture in  a  different  light  from  anything  I  have 
Been  before.     In  short,  the  joy  of  my  heart  is 
to  "  study  men,  their  manners,  and  their  ways  ;" 
and  for  this  darling  subject,  I  cheerfully  sacri- 
fice every  other  consideration.     I  am  quite  in- 
dolent about  those  great  concerns  that  set  the 


bustling,  busy  sons  of  care  agog ;  and  if  I  have 
to  answer  for  the  present  hour,  I  am  very  easy 
with   regard   to    anything   further.     Even   the 
last,  worst   shift    of  the    unfortunate  ard   the 
wretched,  does  not  much   terrify  me:  I    know 
that  even  then,  my  talent  for  what  country  folks 
call  "a  sensible  crack,"  when  once  it  is  sanc- 
tified by  a  hoary  head,  would   procure  me  S3 
much  esteem,  that  even  then— I  would  leai  n  to 
be  happy. '      However,  I  am   under  no  appre- 
hensions about  that ;  for  though  indolent,  yet  so 
far  as  an  extremely  delicate  constitution  per- 
mits, I  am  not  lazy  ;   and  in  many  things,  expe. 
cially  in  tavern  matters,  I  am  a  strict  econo- 
mist ;  not,  indeed,  for  the  sake  of  the  money ; 
but  one  of  the  principal  parts  in  my  composition 
is  a  kind  of  pride  of  stomach  ;  and  I  scorn  to 
fear  the  face  of  any  man  living :  above  every- 
thing, I  abhor  as  hell,  the  idea  of  sneaking  in  a 
corner  to   avoid  a  dun— possibly  some  pitiful, 
sordid  wretch,  who   in  my  heart  I  despise  and 
detest.     'Tis  this,  and  this  alone,  that  endears 
economy  to  me.     In  the  matter   of  books,  in- 
deed, I  am  very  profuse.    My  favourite  authors 
are  of  the  sentimental  kind,  such  as  Shenstone, 
particularly  his   "  Elegies  ;"  Thomson  ;   "  Man 
of  Feeling"— a  book  I  prize  next  to  the  Bible  ; 
"  Man    of  the   World  ;"  Sterne,   especially   his 
"Sentimental   Journey;"    Macpherson's    "  Os- 
sian,"  &c.  ;  these  are  the  glorious  models  after 
which  I  endeavour  to  form  my  conduct,  and  'tis 
incongruous,  'tis  absurd  to  suppose  that  the  man 
whose  mind  glows  with   sentiments  lighted  up 
at  their  sacred  flame— the  man  whose  heart  dis- 
tends with  benevolence  to  all  the  human  race- 
he  "who   can  soar  above  this  little  scene  of 
things" — can  he  descend  to  mind  the  paltry  con- 
cerns about  which  the  terrsefilial  race  fret,  and 
fume,  and  vex  themselves  !    0  how  the  glorious 
triumph  swells  my  heart !    I  forget  that  I  am  a 
poor,    insignificant   devil,    unnoticed    and    un- 
known, stalking  up  and  down  fairs   and  mar- 
kets, when  I  happen  to  be  in  them,  reading  a 
page  or  two  of  mankind,    and   "  catching  the 
manners  living  as  they  rise,"  whilst  the  men  of 
business  jostle  me  on  every  side,  as  an  idle  en- 
cumbrance in  their  way. — But  I  dare  say  I  have 
by  this  time  tired   your  patience;  so  I  shall 
conclude  with  begging  you  to  give  Mrs.  Mui-- 
doch — not  my  compliments,  for  that  is  a  mere 
common-place  story  ;  but  my  warmest,  kindest 

1  The  last  shift  alluded  to  here  mijst  be  the  conditioi 
of  an  itinerant  beggar. — Currie. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


'Sin 


rishes  for  her  welfare;  and  accept  of  the  same 


for  yourself,  from 


Dear  Sir,  yours. — R.  B. 


III. 
TO  MR,   JAMES   BURNESS, 

WRITER,    MONTROSE.' 

[James  Burness.  son  of  the  poet's  unrle,  lives  at  Mont- 
rose, and,  ;is  in:iy  be  surmised,  is  now  very  old  :  fame  lias 
come  to  liis  house  tlirougli  his  eminent  cousin  Robert,  and 
deirer  still  tiirougb  iiis  own  grandson,  Sir  Alexander 
Bnrnes.  with  wliose  talents  and  intrepidity  the  world  is 
well  acquainted.] 

Lochlea,  21st  June,  1783. 
Dear  Sir, 

My  father  received  your  favour  of  the  10th 
current,  and  as  he  has  been  for  some  months 
very  poorly  in  health,  and  is  in  his  own  opinion 
(and  indeed,  in  almost  everybody's  else)  in  a 
dying  condition,  he  has  only,  with  great  diffi- 
culty, written  a  few  farewell  lines  to  each  of 
his  brothers-in-law.  For  this  melancholy  rea- 
son, I  now  hold  the  pen  for  him  to  thank  you 
for  your  kind  letter,  and  to  assure  you.  Sir,  that 
it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  my  father's  correspon- 
dence iu  the  north  die  with  him.  My  brother 
writes  to  John  Caird,  and  to  him  I  must  refer 
you  for  the  news  of  our  family. 

I  shall  only  trouble  you  with  a  few  particu- 
lars relative  to  the  wretched  state  of  this 
country.  Our  markets  are  exceedingly  high ; 
oati'ieal  17d.  and  18d.  per  peck,  and  not  to  be 
gotten  even  at  that  price.  We  have  indeed  been 
pretty  well  supplied  with  quantities  of  white 
peas  from  England  and  elsewhere,  but  that  re- 
Bource  is  likely  to  fail  us,  and  what  will  become 
of  us  then,  particularly  the  very  poorest  sort, 
Heaven  only  knows.  This  country,  till  of  late, 
wan  flourishing  incredibly  in  the  manufacture 
of  silk,  lawn,  and  carpet-weaving ;  and  we  are 
Btill  carrying  on  a  good  deal  in  that  way,  but 
much  reduced  from  what  it  was.  We  had  also 
a  fine  trade  in  the  shoe  way,  but  now  entirely 
ruined,  and  hundreds  driven  to  a  starving  con- 
dition on  account  of  it.     Farming  is  also  at  a 

•  This  penflemnn  (the  son  of  an  elder  brother  of  my 
father's),  witen  he  was  very  young,  lost  his  ftther,  nnd 
having  discovered  m  his  father's  repositories  some  of  my 
father's  letters,  he  requested  that  the  correspondence 
m  !»ht  be  renewed.  My  father  c<mtinued  till  the  last  year 
*  his  life  to  corresp  md  with  his  nephew,  and  it  was 


very  low  ebb  with  us.  Our  lands,  generally 
speaking,  are  mountainous  and  barren ;  and 
our  landholders,  full  of  ideas  of  farming  gathered 
from  the  English  and  the  Lothians,  and  other 
rich  soils  in  Scotland,  make  no  allowance  for 
the  odds  of  the  quality  of  land,  and  conse- 
quently stretch  us  much  beyond  what  in  the 
event  we  will  be  found  able  to  pay.  We  are 
also  much  at  a  loss  for  want  of  proper  niethcda 
in  our  improvements  of  farming.  Necessity 
compels  us  to  leave  our  old  schemes,  and  few 
of  us  have  opportunities  of  being  well  informed 
in  new  ones.  In  short,  my  dear  Sir,  since  the 
unfortunate  beginning  of  this  American  war, 
and  its  as  unfortunate  conclusion,  this  country 
has  been,  and  still  is,  decaying  very  fast.  Even 
in  higher  life,  a  couple  of  our  Ayrshire  noble- 
men, and  the  major  part  of  our  knights  and 
squires,  are  all  insolvent.  A  miserable  job  of  a 
Douglas,  Heron,  and  Co.'s  bank,  which  no 
doubt  you  heard  of,  has  undone  numbers  of 
them  ;  and  imitating  English  and  French,  and 
other  foreign  luxuries  and  fopperies,  has  ruined 
as  many  more.  There  is  a  great  trade  of  smug- 
gling carried  on  along  our  coasts,  which,  how 
ever  destructive  to  the  interests  of  the  kingdom 
at  large,  certainly  enriches  this  corner  of  it, 
but  too  often  at  the  expense  of  our  morals. 
However,  it  enables  individuals  to  make,  at  least 
for  a  time,  a  splendid  appearance ;  but  Fortune, 
as  is  usual  with  her  when  she  is  uncommonly 
lavish  of  her  favours,  is  generally  even  with  them 
at  the  last ;  and  happy  were  it  for  numbers  of 
them  if  she  would  leave  them  no  worse  than 
when  she  found  them. 

My  mother  sends  you  a  small  present  of  a 
cheese,  'tis  but  a  very  little  one,  as  our  last  year's 
stock  is  sold  off;  but  if  you  could  fix  on  any  cor- 
respondent in  Edinburgh  or  Glasgow,  we  would 
send  you  a  proper  one  in  the  season.  Mrs.  Black 
promises  to  take  the  cheese  under  her  care  so 
far,  and  then  to  send  it  to  you  by  the  Stirling 
carrier. 

I  shall  conclude  this  long  letter  with  assu  ing 
you  that  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  hear  from  j  ou, 
or  any  of  our  friends  in  your  country,  when  op- 
portunity serves. 


afterwards  kept  up  by  my  brother.  Extracts  fn)m  some 
of  my  brother's  tetters  to  his  cousin  are  introduced,  for 
the  purpose  of  e.xhibiting  the  poet  before  he  had  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  public,  nnd  in  his  domestic  family  re 
lations  afterwards. — Gilbebt  Bvrns. 


314 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


My  fathtr  sends  you,  probably  for  the   last 
time  in  this  world,  his  warmest  wishes  for  your 
welfare  and  happiness  ;  and  ray  mother  and  the 
rest  of  the  family  desire  to  enclose  their  kind 
compliments  to  you,  Mrs.  Burness,  and  the  rest 
of  your  family,  along  with  those  of, 
Dear  Sir, 
Your  affectionate  Cousin, 
R.  B. 


IV. 


TO    MISS   E. 

[The  name  of  the  lady  to  whom  this  and  the  three  suc- 
ceeding letters  w^ere  addressed,  seems  to  have  been 
known  to  Dr.  Ciirrie,  who  introduced  them  in  his  first 
edition,  but  excluded  tliem  from  his  second.  They  were 
restored  by  Gilbert  Burns,  without  naming  the  lady.] 

Lochlca,  1783. 
I  VEKiLY  believe,  my  dear  E.,  that  the  pure, 
genuine  feelings  of  love  are  as  rare  in  the  world 
as  the  pure  genuine  principles  of  virtue  and 
piety.  This  I  hope  will  account  for  the  uncom- 
mon style  of  all  my  letters  to  you.  By  uncom- 
mon, 1  mean  their  being  written  in  such  a  serious 
manner,  which,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  has  made 
me  often  afraid  lest  you  should  take  me  for 
some  zealous  bigot,  who  conversed  with  his 
mistress  as  he  would  converse  with  his  minister. 
I  don't  know  how  it  is,  my  dear,  for  though, 
except  your  company,  there  is  nothing  on  earth 
gives  me  so  much  pleasure  as  writing  to  you, 
yet  it  never  gives  me  those  giddy  raptures  so 
much  talked  of  among  lovers.  I  have  often 
thought  that  if  a  well-grounded  affection  be  not 
really  a  part  of  virtue,  'tis  something  extremely 
akin  to  it.  Whenever  the  thought  of  my  E. 
warms  my  heart,  every  feeling  of  humanity, 
every  principle  of  generosity  kindles  in  my 
breast.  It  extinguishes  every  dirty  spark  of 
malice  and  envy  which  are  but  too  apt  to  infest 
me  I  grasp  every  creature  in  the  arms  of 
UBiversal  benevolence,  and  equally  participate 
m  the  pleasures  of  the  happy,  and  sympathize 
mi\\  the  miseries  of  the  unfortunate.  I  assure 
you,  my  dear,  I  often  look  up  to  the  Divine  Dis- 
poser of  events  with  an  eye  of  gratitude  for  the 
blessing  which  I  hope  he  intends  to  bestow  on 
me  in  bestowing  you.  I  sincerely  wish  that  he 
may  bless  my  endeavours  to  make  your  life  as 
comfortable  and  happy  as  possible,  both  in 
sweetening  the  rougher  parts  of  my  natural  tem- 


per, and  bettering  the  unkindly  circumstauces 
of  my  fortune.  This,  my  dear,  is  a  passion,  at 
least  in  my  view,  worthy  of  a  man,  and  I  will 
add  worthy  of  a  Christian.  The  sordid  'earth- 
worm may  profess  love  to  a  woman's  person, 
whilst  in  reality  his  affection  is  centred  in  her 
pocket ;  and  the  slavish  drudge  may  go  a-wooing 
as  he  goes  to  the  horse-market  to  choose  one 
who  is  stout  and  firm,  and  as  we  may  say  of  an 
old  horse,  one  who  will  be  a  good  drudge  and 
draw  kindly.  I  disdain  their  dirty,  puny  ideas. 
I  would  be  heartily  out  of  humour  with  myself 
if  I  thought  I  were  capable  of  having  so  poor  a 
notion  of  the  sex,  which  were  designed  to  crown 
the  pleasures  of  society.  Poor  devils  !  I  don't 
envy  them  their  happiness  who  have  such 
notions.  For  my  part,  I  propose  quite  other 
pleasures  with  my  dear  partner. 

R.  B. 


V. 


TO  MISS   E. 

Lochlea,  1783. 
My  dear  E.  : 

I  DO  not  remember,  in  the  course  of  your  ac- 
quaintance and  mine,  ever  to  have  heard  your 
opinion  on  the  ordinary  way  of  falling  in  love, 
amongst  people  of  our  station  of  life  :  I  do  not 
mean  the  persons  who  proceed  in  the  way  of 
bargain,  but  those  whose  affection  is  really 
placed  on  the  person. 

Though  I  be,  as  you  know  very  well,  but  a 
very  awkward  lover  myself,  yet  as  I  have  some 
opportunities  of  observing  the  conduct  of  others 
who  are  much  better  skilled  in  the  affair  of 
courtship  than  I  am,  I  often  think  it  is  owing  to 
lucky  chance  more  than  to  good  management, 
that  there  are  not  more  unhappy  marriages  than 
usually  are. 

It  is  natural  for  a  young  fellow  to  like  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  females,  and  customary  for 
him  to  keep  them  company  when  cccasiDn 
serves  :  some  one  of  them  is  more  agreeable  to 
him  than  the  rest;  there  is  something,  he  knows 
not  what,  pleases  him,  he  knows  not  how,  in 
her  company.  This  I  take  to  be  what  is  called 
love  with  the  greater  part  of  us ;  and  I  must 
own,  dear  E.,  it  is  a  hard  game,  such  a  one  as 
you  have  to  play  when  you  meet  with  such  a 
lover.  You  cannot  refuse  but  he  is  sincere,  and 
yet  though  you  use  him  ever  so  favourably,  per' 


OF   ROBEllT   BUllNS. 


315 


haps  in  a  few  months,  or  at  farthest  in  a  year 
or  two,  the  same  unaccountable  fancy  may  make 
him  as  distractedly  fond  of  another,  whilst  you 
are  quite  forgot.  I  am  aware  that  perhaps  the 
next  time  I  h»-e  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you, 
you  may  bid  me  take  my  own  lesson  home,  and 
tell  me  that  the  passion  I  have  professed  for 
you  is  perhaps  one  of  those  transient  flashes  I 
have  been  describing;  but  I  hope,  my  dear  E., 
you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  me,  when 
I  assure  you  that  the  love  I  have  for  you  is 
founded  on  the  sacred  principles  of  virtue  and 
honour,  and  by  consequence  so  long  as  you  con- 
tinue possessed  of  those  amiable  qualities  which 
first  inspired  my  passion  for  you,  so  long  must 
I  continue  to  love  you.  Believe  me,  my  dear, 
it  is  love  like  this  alone  which  can  render  the 
marriage  state  happy.  People  may  talk  of 
flames  and  raptures  as  long  as  they  please,  and 
a  warm  fancy,  with  a  flow  of  youthful  spirits, 
may  make  them  feel  something  like  what  they 
describe ;  but  sure  I  am  the  nobler  faculties  of 
the  mind,  with  kindred  feelings  of  the  heart, 
can  only  be  the  foundation  of  friendship,  and.  it 
has  always  been  my  opinion  that  the  married 
life  was  only  friendship  in  a  more  exalted  degree. 
If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  grant  my  wishes, 
and  it  should  please  Providence  to  spare  us  to 
the  latest  periods  of  life,  I  can  look  forward  and 
see  that  even  then,  though  bent  down  with 
wrinkled  age  ;  even  then,  when  all  other  worldly 
circumstances  will  be  indiff'erent  to  me,  I  will 
regard  my  E.  with  the  tenderest  affection,  and 
for  this  plain  reason,  because  she  is  still  pos- 
sessed of  those  noble  qualities,  improved  to  a 
much  higher  degree,  which  first  inspired  my 
affection  for  her. 

"  O  !  happy  state  when  souls  each  other  draw, 
When  love  is  liberty  and  nature  law."' 
I  know  were  I  to  speak  in  such  a  style  to  many 
a  girl,  who  thinks  herself  possessed  of  no  small 
share  of  sense,  she  would  think  it  ridiculous  ; 
but  the  language  of  the  heart  is,  my  dear  E., 
the  only  courtship  I  shall  ever  use  to  you. 

When  I  look  over  what  I  have  written,  I  am 
sensible  it  is  vastly  different  from  the  ordinary 
style  of  courtship,  but  I  shall  make  no  apology 
— I  know  your  good  nature  will  excuse  what  your 
good  sense  may  see  amiss.  s 

R.  B. 

1  Pope.    Eloisa  to  Abelari. 


VI. 


TO  MISS  E. 

Lochlea,  1783. 
I  HAVE  often  thought  it  a  peculiarly  unlucky 
circumstance  in  love,  that  though  in  every  oihef 
situation  in  life,  telling  the  truth  is  not  only  the 
safest,  but  actually  by  far  the  easiest  way  of 
proceeding,  a  lover  is  never  under  greater  diffi- 
culty in  acting,  or  more  puzzled  for  expression, 
than  when  his  passion  is  sincere,  and  his  inten- 
tions are  honourable.  I  do  not  think  that  it  ia 
very  difficult  for  a  person  of  ordinary  capacity 
to  talk  of  love  and  fondness,  which  are  not  felt, 
and  to  make  vows  of  constancy  and  fidelity,  which 
are  never  intended  to  be  performed,  if  he  be  vil- 
lain enough  to  practise  such  detestable  conduct : 
but  to  a  man  whose  heart  glows  with  the  princi- 
ples of  integrity  and  truth,  and  who  sincerely 
loves  a  woman  of  amiable  person,  uncommon  re- 
finement of  sentiment  and  purity  of  manners — 
to  such  an  one,  in  such  circumstances,  I  can  as- 
sure you,  my  dear,  from  my  own  feelings  at  this 
present  moment,  courtship  is  a  task  indeed. 
There  is  such  a  number  of  foreboding  fears  and 
distrustful  anxieties  crowd  into  my  mind  when 
I  am  in  your  company,  or  when  I  sit  doAvn  to 
write  to  you,  that  what  to  speak,  or  what  to 
write,  I  am  altogether  at  a  loss. 

There  is  one  rule  which  I  have  hitherto  prac- 
tised, and  which  1  shall  invariably  keep  with  you, 
and  that  is  honestly  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth. 
There  is  something  so  mean  and  unmanly  in  the 
arts  of  dissimulation  and  falsehood,  that  I  am 
surprised  they  can  be  acted  by  any  one  in  so 
noble,  so  generous  a  passion,  as  virtuous  love. 
No,  my  dear  E.,  I  shall  never  endeavour  to  gain 
your  favour  by  such  detestable  practices.  If 
you  will  be  so  good  and  so  generous  as  to  admit 
me  for  your  partner,  your  companion,  your  bo- 
som friend  through  life,  there  is  nothing  on  thia 
side  of  eternity  shall  give  me  greater  transport ; 
but  I  shall  never  think  of  purchasing  your  hand 
by  any  arts  unworthy  of  a  man,  and  I  will  add 
of  a  Christian.  There  is  one  thing,  my  dear, 
which  I  earnestly  request  of  you,  and  it  is  this  ; 
that  you  would  soon  either  put  an  end  to  my 
hopes  by  a  peremptory  refusal,  or  cure  me  of  my 
fears  by  a  generous  consent. 

It  would  oblige  me  much  if  you  Vould  send 
me  a  line  or  two  when  convenient.  I  shall  only 
add  further  that,  if  a  behaviour  regulateH 
(though  perhaps  but  very  imperfectly)  by  the 


316 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


fules  of  honour  and  virtue,  if  a  heart  devoted  to 
love  and  esteem  you,  and  an  earnest  endeavour 
to  promote  your  happiness  ;  if  these  are  quali- 
ties you  would  wish  in  a  friend,  in  a  husband,  I 
hope  you  shall  ever  find  them  in  your  real  friend, 
and  sincere  lover. 

R.  B. 


vn. 

TO  MISS  E. 

Lochlea,  1783. 

I  OUGHT,  in  good  manners,  to  have  acknow- 
ledged the  receipt  of  your  letter  before  this 
time,  but  my  heart  was  so  shocked,  with  the 
contents  of  it,  that  I  can  scarcely  yet  collect  my 
thoughts  so  as  to  write  you  on  the  subject.  I 
will  not  attempt  to  describe  what  I  felt  on  re- 
ceiving your  letter.  I  read  it  over  and  over,  again 
and  again,  and  though  it  was  in  the  politest  lan- 
guage of  refusal,  still  it  was  peremptory;  "you 
were  sorry  you  could  not  make  me  a  return,  but 
you  wish  me,"  what  without  you  I  never  can 
obtain,  "you  wish  me  all  kind  of  happiness." 
It  would  be  weak  and  unmanly  to  say  that,  with- 
out you  I  never  can  be  happy ;  but  sure  I  am, 
that  sharing  life  with  you  would  have  given  it 
a  relish,  that,  wanting  you,  I  can  never  taste, 

Your  uncommon  personal  advantages,  and 
your  superior  good  sense,  do  not  so  much  strike 
me  ;  these,  possibly,  in  a  few  instances  may  be 
met  with  in  others ;  but  that  amiable  goodness, 
that  tender  feminine  softness,  that  endearing 
sweetness  of  disposition,  with  all  the  charming 
offspring  of  a  warm  feeling  heart — tliese  I  never 
again  expect  to  meet  with,  in  such  a  degree,  in 
this  world.  All  these  charming  qualities,  height- 
ened by  an  education  much  beyond  anything  I 
have  ever  met  in  any  woman  I  ever  dared  to 
approach,  have  made  an  impression  on  my  heart 
that  I  do  not  think  the  world  can  ever  efface. 
My  imagination  had  fondly  flattered  myself 
with  a  wish,  I  dare  not  say  it  ever  reached  a 
hope,  that  possibly  I  might  one  day  call  you 
mine.  1  had  formed  the  most  delightful  images, 
and  my  fancy  fondly  brooded  over  them  ;  but 
now  I  am  wretched  for  the  loss  of  what  I  really 
had  no  right  to  expect.  I  must  now  think  no 
more  of  you  as  a  mistress ;  still  I  presume  to 
ask  to  be  admitted  as  a  friend.  As  such  I  wish 
to  be  allowed  to  wait  on  you,  and  as  I  expect  to 


remove  in  a  few  days  a  little  further  off,  and 
you,  I  suppose,  will  perhaps  soon  leave  thii 
place,  I  wish  to  see  or  hear  from  you  soon ;  and 
if  an  expression  should  perhaps  escape  me, 
rather  too  warm  for  friendship,  1  hope  you  will 
pardon  it  in,  my  dear  Miss — (pardon  me  the 
dear  expression  for  once)  *  *  *  * 

R.  B. 


VIII. 

TO   ROBERT   RIDDEL,   ESQ. 

OF   GLENRIDDEL. 

[Tliese  memoranda  throw  much  light  on  the  early  days 
of  Burns,  and  on  the  history  of  his  mind  and  ccmpoBi- 
tions.  Robert  Riddel,  of  the  Friars-Carse,  to  wliom 
these  fragments  were  sent,  was  a  good  man  as  well  as  a 
distinguished  antiquary.] 

My  Dear  Sir, 

On  rummaging  over  some  old  papers  I  lighted 
on  a  MS.  of  my  early  years,  in  which  I  had  de- 
termined to  write  myself  out ;  as  I  was  placed 
by  fortune  among  a  class  of  men  to  whom  my 
ideas  would  have  been  nonsense.  I  had  meant 
that  the  book  should  have  lain  by  me,  in  the 
fond  hope  that  some  time  or  other,  even  after  I 
was  no  more,  my  thoughts  would  fall  into  the 
hands  of  somebody  capable  of  appreciating  their 
value.     It  sets  off  thus : — 

"  Observations,  Hints,  Songs,  Scraps  of 
Poetry,  &c.*,  by  Robert  Blunkss:  a  man  who 
had  little  art  in  making  money,  and  still  less  in 
keeping  it ;  but  was,  however,  a  man  of  some 
sense,  a  great  deal  of  honesty,  and  unbounded 
good-will  to  every  creature,  rational  and  irra- 
tional.— As  he  was  but  little  indebted  to  scho- 
lastic education,  and  bred  at  a  plough-tail,  his 
performances  must  be  strongly  tinctured  with 
his  unpolished,  rustic  way  of  life :  but  as  I  be- 
lieve they  are  really  his  own,  it  may  be  some 
entertainment  to  a  curious  observer  of  human 
nature  to  see  how  a  ploughman  thinks,  and 
feels,  under  the  pressure  of  love,  ambition,  anx- 
iety, grief,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions, 
which,  however  diversified  by  the  modes  and 
manners  of  life,  operate  pretty  much  alike,  I 
believe,  on  all  the  species." 

"There  are  numbers  in  the  ■world  w^ho  do  not  ^vant 
sense  to  make  a  figure,  so  much  as  an  opinion  of  theii 
own  abilities  to  put  them  upon  recording  tiieir  observa- 
tions, and  allowing  them  the  same  import'nce  wliick 
they  do  to  those  which  appear  in  print." — Shenstonk 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


317 


■  Flensing,  when  youth  is  long  expired,  to  trace 

The  forms  our  pencil,  or  our  pen  designed  ! 
Such  Wis  our  youthful  air,  and  shape,  iind  face, 
Such  the  soft  image  of  our  youthful  mind." — Ibid. 


April,  1783. 
Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said  against 
love,  respecting  the  folly  and  weakness  it  leads 
a  young  inexperienced  mind  into  ;  still  I  think, 
it  in  a  great  measure  deserves  the  highest  en- 
comiums that  have  been  passed  upon  it.  If  any- 
thing on  earth  deserves  the  name  of  rapture  or 
transport,  it  is  the  feelings  of  green  eighteen  in 
the  company  of  the  mistress  of  his  heart,  when 
she  repays  him  with  an  equal  return  of  affection. 

August. 
There  is  certainly  some  connexion  between 
love  and  music,   and  poetry ;  and  therefore,  I 
have  always  thought  it  a  fine  touch  of  nature, 
that  passage  in  a  modern  love-composition: 

"As  towards  her  cot  she  jogged  along, 
Her  name  was  frequent  in  his  song." 

For  my  own  part  I  never  had  the  least  thought 
or  inclination  of  turning  poet  till  I  got  once 
heartily  in  love,  and  then  rhyme  and  song  were 
In  a  manner  the  spontaneous  language  of  my 
heart.     The  following  composition  was  the  first 
of  my  performances,  and  done  at  an  early  period  j 
of  life,  when  my  heart  glowed  with  honest  warm  ' 
simplicity  ;  unacquainted  and  uncorrupted  with  ' 
the  ways  of  a  wicked  world.    The  performance 
is  indeed,  very  puerile  and  silly ;  but  I  am  al- 
ways pleased  with  it,  as  it  recalls  to  my  mind 
those  happy  days  when  my  heart  was  yet  honest, 
and  my  tongue  was  sincere.     The  subject  of  it  ; 
was  a  young  girl  who  really  deserved  all  the 
praises  I  have  bestowed  on  her.    I  not  only  had 
this  opinion  of  her  then — but  I  actually  think 
80  still,  now  that  the  spell  is  long  since  broken, 
and  the  enchantment  at  an  end. 

0  once  I  lov'd  a  bonnie  lass.' 

Lest  my  works  should  be  thought  below  cri- 
ticism :  or  meet  with  a  critic,  who,  perhaps,  will 
not  look  on  them  with  so  candid  and  favour- 
able an  eye,  I  am  determined  to  criticise  them 
myself. 

The  first  distich  of  the  first  stanza  is  quite  too 
much  in  the  flimsy  strain  of  our  ordinary  street 
ballads:  and,  on  the  other  hand,   the  second 

•  See  Sonj^s  and  Ballads,  No  1 


distich  is  too  much  in  the  other  extreme.  Th« 
expression  is  a  little  awkward,  and  the  senti- 
ment too  serious.  Stanza  the  second  I  am  well 
pleased  with  ;  and  I  think  it  conveys  u  fine  idea 
of  that  amiable  part  of  the  sex — the  agreeables; 
or  what  in  our  Scotch  dialect  we  call  a  {Wp*t 
sonsie  lass.  The  third  stanza  has  a  little  .f  the 
flimsy  turn  in  it ;  and  the  third  line  has  rather 
too  serious  a  cast.  The  fourth  stanza  is  a  very 
indifferent  one  ;  the  first  line,  is,  indeed,  all  m 
the  strain  of  the  second  stanza,  but  the  rest  is 
most  expletive.  The  thoughts  in  the  fifth  stanza 
come  finely  up  to  my  favourite  idea — a  sweet 
sonsie  lass :  the  last  line,  however,  halts  a 
little.  The  same  sentiments  are  kept  up  with 
equal  spirit  and  tenderness  in  the  sixth  stanza, 
but  the  second  and  fourth  lines  ending  with 
short  syllables  hurt  the  whole.  The  seventh 
stanza  has  several  minute  faults ;  but  I  re- 
member I  composed  it  in  a  wild  enthusiasm  of 
passion,  and  to  this  hour  I  never  recollect  it  but 
my  heart  melts,  my  blood  sallies,  at  the  remem- 
brance. 


September. 
I  entirely  agree  with  that  judicious  philoso- 
pher, Mr.  Smith,  in  his  excellent  Theory  of 
Moral  Sentiments,  that  remorse  is  the  most 
painful  sentiment  that  can  embitter  the  human 
bosom.  Any  ordinary  pitch  of  fortitude  may 
bear  up  tolerably  well  under  those  calamities, 
in  the  procurement  of  which  we  ourselves  have 
had  no  hand ;  but  when  our  own  follies,  or 
crimes,  have  made  us  miserable  and  wretched, 
to  hear  up  with  manly  firmness,  and  at  the  same 
time  have  a  proper  penitent  sense  of  our  mis- 
conduct, is  a  glorious  effort  of  self-command. 

Of  all  the  numerous  ills  that  hurt  our  peace, 
That  press  the  soul,  or  wring  the  iL.n(l  mtb 

anguish. 
Beyond  comparison  the  worst  are  those 
That  to  our  folly  or  our  guilt  we  owe. 
In  every  other  circumstance,  the  mind 
Has  this  to  say,  *  It  was  no  deed  of  mine ;' 
But  when  to  all  the  evil  of  misfortune 
This  sting  is  added — 'Blame  thy  foolish  self!* 
Or  worser  far,  the  pangs  of  keen  remorse  ; 
The  torturing,  gnawing  consciousness  of  guilt — 
Of  guilt,  perhaps,  where  we've  involved  others ; 
The  young,  the  innocent,  who  fondly  lov'd  us, 
Nay,  more,  that  every  love  their  cause  of  ruin  • 


818 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


0  burning  hell ;  in  all  thy  store  of  torments, 
There's  not  a  keener  lash  ! 

Lives  there  a  man  so  firm,  who,  while  his  heart 
Feels  all  the  bitter  horrors  of  his  crime, 
Can  reason  down  its  agonizing  throbs ; 
And,  after  proper  purpose  of  amendment, 
•Can  firmly  force  his  jarring  thoughts  to  peace  ? 
0   happy  !  happy  !  enviable  man ! 
0  glorious  magnanimity  of  soul! 


March,  1784. 

I  have  often  observed,  in  the  course  of  my 
experience  of  human  life,  that  every  man,  even 
the  worst,  has  something  good  about  him ; 
though  very  often  nothing  else  than  a  happy 
temperament  of  constitution  inclining  him  to 
this  or  that  virtue.  For  this  reason  no  man 
can  say  in  what  degree  any  other  person,  be- 
sides himself,  can  be,  with  strict  justice,  called 
wicked.  Let  any,  of  the  strictest  character  for 
regularity  of  conduct  among  us,  examine  im- 
partially how  many  vices  he  has  never  been 
guilty  of,  not  from  any  care  or  vigilance,  but 
for  want  of  opportunity,  or  some  accidental  cir- 
cumstance intervening  ;  how  many  of  the  weak- 
nesses of  mankind  he  has  escaped,  because  he 
was  out  of  the  line  of  such  temptation ;  and, 
what  often,  if  not  always,  weighs  more  than  all 
the  rest,  how  much  he  is  indebted  to  the  world's 
good  opinion,  because  the  world  does  not  know 
all :  I  say,  any  man  who  can  thus  think,  will 
scan  the  failings,  nay,  the  faults  and  crimes,  of 
mankind  around  him,  with  a  brother's  eye. 

I  have  often  courted  the  acquaintance  of  that 
part  of  mankind,  commonly  known  by  the  or- 
dinary phrase  of  blackguards,  sometimes  far- 
ther than  was  consistent  with  the  safety  of  my 
character ;  those  who  by  thoughtless  prodiga- 
lity or  headstrong  passions,  have  been  driven 
to  ruin.  Though  disgraced  by  follies,  nay 
Bometimes,  stained  with  guilt,  I  have  yet  found 
among  them,  in  not  a  few  instances,  some  of  the 
noblest  virtues,  magnanimity,  generosity,  disin- 
terested friendship,  and  even  modesty. 

April. 
As  I  am  what  the  men  of  the  world,  if  they 
knew  such  a  man,  would  call  a  whimsical  mor- 
tal, I  have  various  sources  of  pleasure  and  en- 
joyment, which  are,  in  a  manner,  peculiar  to 

»  See  Winter.    A  Dirge.    Poem  I. 


myself,  or  some  here  and  there  such  other  out 
of-the-way  person.  Such  is  the  peculiar  plea* 
sure  I  take  in  the  season  of  winter,  more  than 
the  rest  of  the  year.  This,  I  believe,  may  be 
partly  owing  to  my  misfortunes  giving  my  mind 
a  melancholy  cast :  but  there  is  something  even 
in  the — 

"  Mighty  tempest,  and  the  hoary  waste 
Abrupt  and  deep,  stretch'd  o'er  the  buried  earth,"— 

which  raises  the  mind  to  a  serious  sublimity, 
favourable  to  everything  great  and  noble.  There 
is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives  me  more — 
I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it  pleasure — but 
something  which  exalts  me,  something  which 
enraptures  me — than  to  walk  in  the  sheltered 
side  of  a  wood,  or  high  plantation,  in  a  cloudy 
winter-day,  and  hear  the  stormy  wind  howling 
among  the  trees,  and  raving  over  the  plain.  It 
is  my  best  season  for  devotion:  my  mind  is 
wrapt  up  in  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  to  Ilim,  who, 
in  the  pompous  language  of  the  Hebrew  bard, 
"  walks  on  the  wings  of  the  wind."  In  one  of 
these  seasons,  just  after  a  train  of  misfortunes, 
I  composed  the  following  : — 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast.' 

Shenstone  finely  observes,  that  love-verses, 
writ  without  any  real  passion,  are  the  most 
nauseous  of  all  conceits ;  and  I  have  often 
thought  that  no  man  can  be  a  proper  critic  of 
love-composition,  except  he  himself,  in  one  or 
more  instances,  have  been  a  warm  votary  of  this 
passion.  As  I  have  been  all  along  a  miserable 
dupe  to  love,  and  have  been  led  into  a  thousand 
weaknesses  and  follies  by  it,  for  that  reason  I  put 
the  more  confidence  in  my  critical  skill,  in  dis- 
tinguishing foppery  and  conceit  from  real  pas- 
sion and  nature.  Whether  the  following  song 
will  stand  the  test,  I  will  not  pretend  to  say, 
because  it  is  my  own ;  only  I  can  say  it  was,  at 
the  time,  genuine  from  the  heart: — 

Behind  yon  hills,  where  Lugar  flows,  ^ 

March,  1784. 
There  was  a  certain  period  of  my  life  that  my 
spirit  was  broke  by  repeated  losses  and  disasters 
which  threatened,  and  indeed  effected,  the  utter 
ruin  of  my  fortune.  My  body,  too,  was  attacked 
by  that  most  dreadful  distemper,  a  hypochon- 
dria, or  confirmed  melancholy.    In  this  wretched 

2  Song  XIV. 


UK   IIOBEKT   J3U11NS. 


313 


Btate,  the  recollection  of  which  makes  me  shud- 
der, I  hung  my  harp  on  the  willow  trees,  ex- 
sept  in  some  lucid  intervals,  in  one  of  which  I 
somposed  the  following  : — 

0  thou  Great  Being !  what  Thou  art.^ 


April. 
The  following  song  is  a  wild  rhapsody,  misera- 
bly deficient  in  versification  ;  but  as  the  senti- 
ments are  the  genuine  feelings  of  my  heart,  for 
that  reason  I  have  a  particular  pleasure  in  con- 
ning it  over. 

My  father  was  a  farmer 

Upon  the  Carrick  border,  0.' 

April. 
I  think  the  whole  species  of  young  men  may 
be  naturally  enough  divided  into  two  grand 
classes,  which  I  shall  call  the  grave  and  the 
merry ;  though,  by  the  by,  these  terms  do  not 
with  propriety  enough  express  my  ideas.  The 
grave  I  shall  cast  into  the  usual  division  of  those 
who  are  goaded  on  by  the  love  of  money,  and 
those  whose  darling  wish  is  to  make  a  figure 
in  the  world.  The  merry  are  the  men  of  plea- 
sure of  all  denominations;  the  jovial  lads,  who 
have  too  much  fire  and  spirit  to  have  any  settled 
rule  of  action  ;  but,  without  much  deliberation, 
follow  the  strong  impulses  of  nature :  the 
thoughtless,  the  careless,  the  indolent — in  par- 
ticular h^,  who,  with  a  happy  sweetness  of  natu- 
ral temvtr,  and  a  cheerful  vacancy  of  thought, 
steals  through  life — generally,  indeed,  in  poverty 
and  obscurity ;  but  poverty  and  obscurity  are 
only  evils  to  him  who  can  sit  gravely  down  and 
make  a  repining  comparison  between  his  own 
situation  and  that  of  others ;  and  lastly,  to  grace 
the  quorum,  such  are,  generally,  those  whose 
li,'.iJs  are  capable  of  all  the  towerings  of  genius, 
and  whose  hearts  are  warmed  with  all  the  de- 
licacy of  feeling. 

August. 
The  foregoing  wm  to  have  been  an  elaborate 
dissertation  on  the  various  species  of  men  ;  but 
as  I  cannot  please  myself  in  the  arrangement 
of  my  ideas,  I  must  wait  till  farther  experience 
and  nicer  observation  throw  more  light  on  the 
Bubject. — In  the  mean  time  I  shall  set  down  the 
Allowing  fragment,  which,  as  it  is  the  genuine 


Po-m  !X. 


«  Song  V. 


language  of  my  heart,  will  enable  anybody  to 
determine  which  of  the  classes  I  belong  to 

There's  nought  but  care  oti  ev'ry  ban', 
In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  O.' 

As  the  grand  end  of  human  life  is  to  cultivat* 
an  intercourse  with  that  Being  to  whom  we 
owe  life,  with  every  enjoyment  that  renders 
life  delightful ;  and  to  maintain  an  integritive 
conduct  towards  our  fellow-creatures ;  that  so, 
by  forming  piety  and  virtue  into  habit,  we  may 
be  fit  members  for  that  society  of  the  pious  and 
the  good,  which  reason' and  revelation  teach  us  to 
expect  beyond  the  grave,  I  do  not  see  that  the 
turn  of  mind,  and  pursuits  of  such  a  one  as  the 
above  verses  describe  —  one  who  spends  the 
hours  and  thoughts  which  the  vocations  of  the 
day  can  spare  with  Ossian,  Shakspeare,  Thom- 
son, Shenstone,  Sterne,  &c. ;  or,  as  the  maggot 
takes  him,  a  gun,  a  fiddle,  or  a  song  to  make  or 
mend ;  and  at  all  times  some  heart's-dear  bon- 
nie  lass  in  view — I  say  I  do  not  see  that  the 
turn  of  mind  and  pursuits  of  such  an  one  are 
in  the  least  more  inimical  to  the  sacred  interests 
of  piety  and  virtue,  than  the  even  lawful,  bus- 
tling and  straining  after  the  world's  riches  and 
honours :  and  I  do  not  see  but  he  may  gain 
heaven  as  well — which,  by  the  by,  is  no  mean 
consideration — who  steals  through  the  vale  of 
life,  amusing  himself  with  every  little  fliower 
that  fortune  throws  in  his  way,  as  he,  who  strain- 
ing straight  forward,  and  perhaps  spattering 
all  about  him,  gains  some  of  life's  little  eminen- 
cies,  where,  after  all,  he  can  only  see  and  be 
seen  a  little  more  conspicuously  than  what,  in 
the  pride  of  his  heart,  he  is  apt  to  term  the 
poor,  indolent  devil  he  has  left  behind  him. 

Avguit. 
A  Prayer,  when  fainting  fits,  and  other  alarm- 
ing symptoms  of  a  pleurisy  or  some  other  dan- 
gerous disorder,   which    indeed  still  threatens 
me,  first  put  nature  on  the  alarm : — 

0  thou  unknown.  Almighty  Cause 
Of  all  my  hope  and  fear!* 

August. 
Misgivings  in  the  hour  of  despondency  and 
prospect  of  death : — 

Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene.^ 


8  Song  XVII. 


4  PoemX.         6  Poem  XI. 


320 


GENERAL   CORllESPONDENCE 


EGOTISMS  FROM   MY  OWN  SENSATIONS. 

May. 
1  don't  well  know  what  is  the  reason  of  it, 
but  somehow  or  other,  though  I  am  when  I  have 
a  mind  pretty  generally  beloved,  yet  I  never 
could  get  the  art  of  commanding  respect.  — 
I  imagine  it  is  owing  to  my  being  deficient  in 
what  Sterne  calls  "  that  understrapping  virtue 
of  discretion." — I  am  so  apt  to  a  lapsus  linyuoi, 
that  I  sometimes  think  the  character  of  a  cer- 
tain great  man  I  have  read  of  somewhere  is  very 
much  apropos  to  myself — that  he  was  a  com- 
pound of  great  talents  and  great  folly. — N.  B. 
To  try  if  I  can  discover  the  causes  of  this 
wretched  infirmity,  and,  if  possible,  to  mend  it. 


August, 
However  I  am  pleased  with  the  works  of  our 
Scotch  poets,  particularly  the  excellent  Ramsay, 
and  the  still  more  excellent  Fergusson,  yet  I  am 
hurt  to  see  other  places  of  Scotland,  their  towns, 
rivers,  woods,  haughs,  &c.,  immortalized  in  such 
celebrated  performances,  while  my  dear  native 
country,  the  ancient  bailieries  of  Carrick,  Kyle, 
and  Cunningham,  famous  both  in  ancient  and 
modern  times  for  a  gallant  and  warlike  race  of 
inhabitants ;  a  country  where  civil,  and  parti- 
cularly religious  liberty  have  ever  found  their 
first  support,  and  their  last  asylum  ;  a  country, 
the  birth-place  of  many  famous  philosophers, 
Boldiers,  statesman,  and  the  scene  of  many  im- 
portant events  recorded  in  Scottish  history,  par- 
ticularly a  great  many  of  the  actions  of  the 
glorious  Wallace,  the  Saviour  of  his  country ; 
yet,  we  have  never  had  one  Scotch  poet  of  any 
eminence,  to  make  the  fertile  banks  of  Irvine, 
the  romantic  woodlands  and  sequestered  scenes 
on  Ayr,  and  the  heathy  mountainous  source 
and  winding  sweep  of  DooN,  emulate  Tay,  Forth, 
Ettrick,  Tweed,  &c.  This  is  a  complaint  I 
would  gladly  remedy,  but,  alas  !  I  am  far  un- 
equal to  the  task,  both  in  native  genius  and 
education.  Obscure  I  am,  and  obscure  I  must 
bo,  though  no  young  poet,  nor  young  soldier's 
neart,  ever  beat  more  fondly  for  fame  than 
tnine — 

'  And  if  there  is  no  other  scene  of  being 
Where  my  insatiate  wish  m:iy  have  its  fill, — 
This  soinetliing  at  my  heart  that  heaves  for  room, 
My  best,  my  dearest  part,  was  made  in  vain." 


September. 
There  is  a  great  irregularity  in  the  old  Scotch 
songs,  a  redundancy  of  syllables  with  respect 
to  that  exactness  of  accent  and  measure  that 
the  English  poetry  requires,  but  which  glides 
in,  most  melodiously,  with  the  respective  tunes 
to  which  they  are  set.  For  instance,  the  fine 
old  song  of  "The  Mill,  Mill,  0,"'  to  give  it  a 
plain  prosaic  reading,  it  halts  prodigiously  out 
of  measure;  on  the  other  hand,  the  song  set 
to  the  same  tune  in  Bremner's  collection  of 
Scotch  songs,  which  begins  ♦*  To  Fanny  fair 
could  I  impart,"  &c.,  it  is  most  exact  measure, 
and  yet,  let  them  both  be  sung  before  a  real 
critic,  one  above  the  biases  of  prejudice,  but  a 
thorough  judge  of  nature, — how  flat  and  spirit- 
less will  the  last  appear,  how  trite,  and  lamely 
methodical,  compared  with  the  wild  warbling 
cadence,  the  heart-moving  melody  of  the  first  I 
— This  is  particularly  the  case  with  all  those 
airs  which  end  with  a  hypermetrical  syllable. 
There  is  a  degree  of  wild  irregularity  in  many 
of  the,  compositions  and  fragments  which  are 
daily  sung  to  them  by  my  compeers,  the  com- 
mon people — a  certain  happy  arrangement  of 
old  Scotch  syllables,  and  yet,  very  frequently, 
nothing,  not  even  like  rhyme  or  sameness  of 
jingle,  at  the  ends  of  the  lines.  This  has  made 
me  sometimes  imagine  that  perhaps  it  might  be 
possible  for  a  Scotch  poet,  with  a  nice  judicious 
ear,  to  set  compositions  to  many  of  our  most 
favourite  airs,  particularly  that  class  of  them 
mentioned  above,  independent  of  rhyme  alto- 
gether. 


There  is  a  noble  sublimity,  a  heart-melting 
tenderness,  in  some  of  our  ancient  ballads, 
which  show  them  to  be  the  work  of  a  masterly 
hand :  and  it  has  often  given  me  many  a  heart- 
ache to  reflect  that  such  glorious  old  bards — 
bards  who  very  probably  owed  all  their  talents 
to  native  genius,  yet  have  described  the  exploits 
of  heroes,  the  pangs  of  disappointment,  and  the 
meltings  of  love,  with  such  fine  strokes  of 
nature — that  their  very  names  (0  how  mortify- 
ing to  a  bard's  vanity  !)  are  now  "  buried  among 
the  wreck  of  things  which  were." 

0  ye  illusti-ious  names  unknown !  who  could 
feel  so  strongly  and  describe  so  well :  the  last, 
the  meanest  of  the  muses'  train  —  one  who, 
though  far   inferior  to  your  flights,  yet   eyes 

1  "  The  Mill,  Mill,  O,"  is  by  Allan  Ramsay. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


321 


your  path,  and  with  trembling  wing  would 
sometimes  soar  after  you — a  poor  rustic  bard 
unknown,  pays  this  sympathetic  pang  to  your 
memory!  Some  of  you  tell  us,  with  all  the 
charms  of  verse,  that  you  have  been  unfortunate 
in  the  world — unfortunate  in  love :  he,  too,  has 
felt  the  loss  of  his  little  fortune,  the  loss  of 
friends,  and,  worse  than  all,  the  loss  of  the 
•woman  he  adored.  Like  you,  all  his  consola- 
tion was  his  muse  :  she  taught  him  in  rustic 
meiisures  to  complain.  Happy  could  he  have 
done  it  with  your  strength  of  imagination  and 
flow  of  verse !  May  the  turf  lie  lightly  on  your 
bones!  and  may  you  now  enjoy  that  solace  and 
rest  which  this  world  rarely  gives  to  the  heart 
tuned  to  all  the  feelings  of  poesy  and  love  I 

September. 

The  following  fragment  is  done  something  in 
rmitation  of  the  manner  of  a  noble  old  Scottish 
piece,  called  M'Millan's  Peggy,  and  sings  to  the 
tune  of  Galla  Water. — My  Montgomery's  Peggy 
was  my  deity  for  six  or  eight  months.  She  had 
been  bred  (though,  as  the  world  says,  without 
any  just  pretence  for  it)  in  a  style  of  life  rather 
elegant ;  but,  as  Vanbrugh  says  in  one  of  his 
comedies,  my  "d — d  star  found  me  out"  there 
too  :  for  though  I  began  the  affair  merely  in.  a 
gaietle  de  cceur,  or,  to  tell  the  truth,  which  will 
scarcely  be  believed,  a  vanity  of  showiug  my 
parts  in  courtship,  particularly  my  abilities  at  a 
billet-doux,  which  I  always  piqued  myself  upon, 
made  me  lay  siege  to  her ;  and  when,  as  I  always 
do  in  my  foolish  gallantries,  I  had  fettered  my- 
self into  a  very  warm  affection  for  her,  she  told 
me  one  day,  in  a  flag  of  truce,  that  her  fortress 
had  been  for  some  time  before  the  rightful  pro- 
perty of  another ;  but,  with  the  greatest  friend- 
ship and  politeness,  she  offered  me  every  alliance 
except  actual  possession.  I  found  out  after- 
wards that  what  she  told  me  of  a  pre-engage- 
ment  was  really  true;  but  it  cost  me  some 
heartaches  to  get  rid  of  the  affair. 

I  have  even  tried  to  imitate  in  this  extempore 
thir  g  that  irregularity  in  the  rhymes,  which, 
when  judiciously  done,  has  such  a  fine  effect  on 
the  ear. 

"Altho'  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir."' 


Song  VIII. 


31 


September. 
There  is  another  fragment  in  imitation  of  an 
old  Scotch  song,  well  known  among  the  country 
ingle-sides. — I  cannot  tell  the  name,  neither  of 
the  song  nor  the  tune,  but  they  are  in  fine  unison 
with  one  another. — By  the  way,  these  old  Scot- 
tish airs  are  so  nobly  sentimental,  that  when  one 
would  compose  to  them,  to  "south  the  tune,"  as 
our  Scotch  phrase  is,  over  and  over,  is  the  readi- 
est way  to  catch  the  inspiration,  and  raise  the 
bard  into  that  glorious  enthusiasm  so  strongly 
characteristic  of  our  old  Scotch  poetry.  I  shall 
here  set  down  one  verse  of  the  piece  mentioned 
above,  both  to  mark  the  song  and  tune  I  mean, 
and  likewise  as  a  debt  I  owe  to  the  author,  as 
the  repeating  of  that  verse  has  lighted  up  my 
flame  a  thousand  times : — 

When  clouds  in  skies  do  come  together 
To  hide  the  brightness  of  the  sun, 

There  will  surely  be  some  pleasant  weathei 
When  a'  their  storms  are  past  and  gone 

Though  fickle  fortune  has  deceived  me, 
She  promis'd  fair  and  perform'd  but  ill ; 

Of  mistress,  friends,  and  wealth  bereav'd  me. 
Yet  I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 

I'll  act  vnth  prudence  as  far  as  I'm  able 

But  if  success  I  must  never  find. 
Then  come  misfortune,  I  bid  thee  welcome, 

I'll  meet  thee  with  an  undaunted  mind. 

The  above  was  an  extempore,  under  the  pres- 
sure of  a  heavy  train  of  misfortunes,  which,  in- 
deed, threatened  to  undo  me  altogether.  It  was 
just  at  the  close  of  that  dreadful  period  men- 
tioned already,  and  though  the  weather  has 
brightened  up  a  little  wth  me,  yet  there  has 
always  been  since  a  tempest  brewing  round  me 
in  the  grim  sky  of  futurity,  which  I  pretty  plainly 
see  will  some  time  or  other,  perhaps  ere  long, 
overwhelm  me,  and  drive  me  into  some  doleful 
dell,  to  pine  in  solitary,  squalid  wretchedness.* 
However,  as  I  hope  my  poor  counti'y  muse,  wht, 
all  rustic,  awkward,  and  unpolished  as  she  is, 
has  more  charms  for  me  than  any  other  of  the 
pleasures  of  life  beside — as  I  hope  she  will  not 
then  desert  me,  I  may  even  then  learn  to  be,  if 
not  happy,  at  least  easy,  and  south  a  sang  to 
soothe  my  misery. 

*Twas  at  the  same  time  I  set  about  composing 
an  air  in  the  old  Scotch  style. — I  am  not  musi- 

2  Alluding  to  the  misfortunes  he  feelingly  lauenta  b« 
fore  this  verse.    (This  is  the  author's  note.) 


322 


GENERAL   COlillESPONDENCE 


cal  scholar  enough  to  prick  down  my  tune  pro- 
perly, so  it  can  never  see  the  light,  and  perhaps 
'tis  no  great  matter  ;  but  the  following  were  the 
verses  I  composed  to  suit  it:  — 

0  raging  fortune's  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  0 ! ' 

The  tune  consisted  of  three  parts^  so  that  the 
above  verses  just  went  through  the  whole  air. 

October,  1785. 

If  ever  any  young  man,  in  the  vestibule  of  the 
world,  chance  to  throw  his  eye  over  these  pages, 
let  him  pay  a  warm  attention  to  the  following 
observations,  as  I  assure  him  they  are  the  fruit 
of  a  poor  devil's  dear-bought  experience. — I 
have  literally,  like  that  great  poet  and  great 
gallant,  and  by  consequence,  that  great  fool, 
Solomon,  "  turned  my  eyes  to  behold  madness 
and  folly."  Nay,  I  have,  with  all  the  ardour 
of  a  lively,  fanciful,  and  whimsical  imagination, 
accompanied  with  a  warm,  feeling,  poetic  heart, 
shaken  hands  with  their  intoxicating  friendship. 

In  the  first  place,  let  my  pupil,  as  he  tenders 
I'his  own  peace,  keep  up  a  regular,  warm  inter- 
course with  the  Deity.  *  *  -s^-  * 

This  is  all  worth  quoting  in  my  MSS.,  and 
tmore  than  all.  R.  B. 


IX. 

TO   MR.   JAMES   BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[The  elder  Burns,  whose  death  this  letter  intimates, 
lies  buried  in  the  kirkyard  of  Alloway,  with  a  tombstone 
recording  his  worth.] 

Lochlea,  11  th  Feb.  1784. 
Deaf  Cousin, 

'I  WOULD  have  returned  you  my  thanks  for 
your  kind  favour  of  the  13th  of  December 
sooner,  had  it  not  been  that  I  waited  to  give 
you  an  account  of  that  melancholy  event,  which, 
for  some  time  past,  we  have  from  day  to  day 
expected. 

On  the  13th  current  I  lost  the  best  of  fathers. 
Though,  to  be  sure,  we  have  had  long  warning 
of  the  impending  stroke ;  still  the  feelings  of 
nature  claim  their  part,  and  I  cannot  recollect 
the  tender  endearments  and  parental  lessons  of 

1  Song  II. 


the  best  of  friends  and  ablest  of  instructors, 
without  feeling  what  perhaps  the  calmer  dictates 
of  reason  would  partly  condemn. 

I  hope  my  father's  friends  in  your  country 
will  not  let  their  connexion  in  this  place  die 
with  him.  For  my  part  I  shall  ever  with  plea- 
sure— with  pride,  acknowledge  my  connexion 
with  those  who  were  allied  by  the  ties  of  blood 
and  friendship  to  a  man  whose  memory  I  shal. 
ever  honour  and  revere. 

I  expect,  therefore,  my  dear  Sir,  you  will  not 
neglect  any  opportunity  of  letting  me  hear  from 
you,  which  will  very  much  oblige. 

My  dear  Cousin,  yours  sincerely, 
K   B. 


TO  JAMES   BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[Mrs.  Buchan,  the  forerunner  in  extravagance  and  ab- 
surdity of  Joanna  Southcote,  after  attempting  to  fix  her 
tent  among  the  hills  of  the  west  and  the  vales  of  the 
Nith,  finally  set  up  her  staff  at  Auchengibbert-Hill;  in 
Galloway,  where  she  lectured  her  followers,  and  held 
out  hopes  of  their  reaching  the  stars,  even  in  frJiis  life. 
She  died  early :  one  or  two  of  her  people,  as  she  called 
them,  survived  till  within  these  half-dozen  years.] 

Mossgiel,  August,  1784. 
We  have  been  surprised  with  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  phenomena  in  the  moral  world 
which,  I  dare  say,  has  happened  in  the  course  of 
this  half  century.  We  have  had  a  party  of  Pres- 
bytery relief,  as  they  call  themselves,  for  some 
time  in  this  country.  A  pretty  thriving  society 
of  them  has  been  in  the  burgh  of  Irvine  for 
some  years  past,  till  about  two  years  ago,  a 
Mrs.  Buchan  from  Glasgow  came  among  them, 
and  began  to  spread  some  fanatical  notions  of 
religion  among  them,  and,  in  a  short  time, 
made  many  converts;  and,  among  others,  their 
preacher,  Mr.  Whyte,  who,  upon  that  account, 
has  been  suspended  and  formally  deposed  by  his 
brethren.  He  continued,  however,  to  preach  in 
private  to  his  party,  and  was  supported,  both 
he  and  their  spiritual  mother,  as  they  affect  tc 
call  old  Buchan,  by  the  contributions  of  the 
rest,  several  of  whom  were  in  good  circum- 
stances; till,  in  spring  last,  the  populace  rose  and 
mobbed  Mrs.  Buchan,  and  put  her  out  of  the 
town  ;  on  which  all  her  followers  voluntarily 
quitted  the  place  likewise,  and  with  such  preci- 
pitation, that  many  of  them  never  shut  their 


Uiv   KOBERT   BLKN«. 


323 


doors  beh.nd  them  ;  one  left  a  washing  on  the 
green,  another  a  cow  bellowing  at  the  crib  with- 
out food,  or  anybody  to  mind  her,  and  after 
several  stages,  they  are  fixed  at  present  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Dumfries.  Their  tenets  are 
a  strange  jumble  of  enthusiastic  jargon  ;  among 
others,  she  pretends  to  give  them  the  Holy  Ghost 
by  breathing  on  them,  which  she  does  with  pos- 
tures and  practices  that  are  scandalously  inde- 
tent;  they  have  likewise  (^isposed  of  all  their 
effects,  and  hold  a  community  of  goods,  and 
live  nearly  an  idle  life,  carrying  on  a  great 
farce  of  pretended  devotion  in  barns  and  woods, 
where  they  lodge  and  lie  all  together,  and  hold 
likewise  a  community  of  women,  as  it  is  another 
of  their  tenets  that  they  can  commit  no  moral 
Bin.  I  am  personally  acquainted  with  most  of 
them,  and  I  can  assure  you  the  above  mentioned 
are  facts. 

This,  my  dear  Sir,  is  one  of  the  many  in- 
stances of  the  folly  of  leaving  the  guidance  of 
sound  reason  and  common  sense  in  matters  of 
religion. 

Whenever  we  neglect  or  despise  these  sacred 
jfionitors,  the  whsnsical  notions  of  a  perturbated 
brain  are  taken  for  the  immediate  influences 
of  the  Deity,  and  the  wildest  fanaticism,  and 
the  most  inconstant  absurdities,  will  meet  with 
abettors  and  converts.  Nay,I  have  often  thought, 
that  the  more  out-of-the-way  and  ridiculous  the 
fancies  are,  if  once  they  are  sanctified  under  the 
sacred  name  of  religion,  the  unhappy  mistaken 
votaries  are  the  more  firmly  glued  to  them. 

R.  B. 


XI. 
TO   MISS . 

[This  has  generally  been  printed  among  the  early  letters 
of  Burns.  Cromek  thinks  that  the  person  addressed  was 
the  "  Peggy"  of  the  Common-place  Book.  This  is  ques- 
ti<med  by  Robert  Chambers,  wlio,  however,  leaves  both 
name  and  date  unsettled.] 

My  dear  Countrywoman, 

I  AM  so  impatient  to  show  you  that  I  am  once 
more  at  peace  with  you,  that  I  send  you  the  book 
I  mentioned  directly,  rather  than  wait  the  un- 
certain time  of  my  seeing  you.  I  am  afraid  I 
have  mislaid  or  lost  Collins'  Poems,  which  I 
promised  to  Miss  Irvin.  If  I  can  find  them,  I 
will  forward  them  by  you;  if  not,  you  must 
apologize  for  me. 

I  know  you  will  laugh  at  it  when  I  tell  you 
that  your  piano  and  you  together  have  played 


the  deuce  somehow  about  my  heart.  My  breast 
has  been  widowed  these  many  months,  and  I 
thought  myself  proof  against  the  fascinating 
witchcraft;  but  I  am  afraid  you  will  "feelingly 
convince  me  what  I  am."  I  say,  I  am  afraid, 
because  I  am  not  sure  what  is  the  matter  with 
me.  I  have  one  miserable  bad  symptom  ;  when 
you  whisper,  or  look  kindly  to  another,  it  give? 
me  a  draught  of  damnation.  I  have  a  kind  of 
wayward  wish  to  be  with  you  ten  minutes  by 
yourself,  though  what  I  would  say.  Heaven 
above  knows,  for  I  am  sure  I  know  not,  I  have 
no  formed  design  in  all  this ;  but  just,  in  the 
nakedness  of  my  heart,  write  you  down  a  mere 
matter-of-fact  story.  You  may  perhaps  give 
yourself  airs  of  distance  on  this,  and  that  will 
completely  cure  me  ;  but  I  wish  you  would  not: 
just  let  us  meet,  if  you  please,  in  the  old  beaten 
way  of  friendship.  * 

I  will  not  subscribe  myself  your  humble  ser- 
vant, for  that  is  a  phrase,  I  think  at  least  fifty 
miles  oflF  from  the  heart;  but  I  will  conclude 
with  sincerely  wishing  that  the  Great  Protector 
of  innocence  may  shield  you  from  the  barbed 
dart  of  calumny,  and  hand  you  by  the  covert 
snare  of  deceit.  .  R.  B. 


XII. 
TO   MR.   JOHN  RICHMOND, 

OF     EDINBURGH. 

[John  Richmond,  writer,  one  of  the  poet's  Mauchhne 
friends,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  much  valuable  in- 
formation concerning  Burns  and  his  productions — Conuel 
was  the  Mauchline  carrier.] 

Mossgiel,  Feb.  17,  1786. 
My  dear  Sir, 
I  have  not  time  at  present  to  upbraid  you 
for  your  silence  and  neglect;  I  shall  only  say  I 
received  yours  with  great  pleasure.  I  have 
enclosed  you  a  piece  of  rhyming  ware  for  your 
perusal.  I  have  been  very  busy  with  the  muses 
since  I  saw  you,  and  have  composed,  among 
several  others,  "The  Ordination,"  a  poem  on 
Mr.  M'Kinlay's  being  called  to  Kilmarnock ; 
**  Scotch  Drink,"  a  poem ;  "  The  Cotter's  Satur- 
day Night;"  "An Address  to  the  Devil,"  &c.  I 
have  likewise  completed  my  poem  on  the 
"Dogs,"  but  have  not  shown  it  to  the  world, 
My  chief  patron  now  is  Mr.  Aiken,  in  Ayr,  who 
is  pleased  to  express  great  approbation  of  my 
works.     Be  so  good  as  send  me  Fergusson,  b^ 


524 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


Connel,  and  I  will  remit  you  the  money.  I  have 
no  news  to  acquaint  you  with  about  Mauchline, 
they  are  just  going  on  in  the  old  way.  I  have 
some  very  important  news  with  respect  to  my- 
self, not  the  most  agreeable — news  that  I  am 
sure  you  cannot  guess,  but  I  shall  give  you  the 
particulars  another  time.  I  am  extremely 
happy  with  Smith ;  he  is  the  only  friend  I 
have  now  in  Mauchline.  I  can  scarcely  forgive 
your  long  neglect  of  me,  and  I  beg  you  will  let 
me  hear  from  you  regularly  by  Connel.  If 
you  would  act  your  part  as  a  friend,  I  am  sure 
neither  good  nor  bad  fortune  should  strange  or 
alter  me.  Excuse  haste,  as  I  got  yours  but 
yesterday. 

I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Yours, 

R.  B. 


XIII. 
TO   MR.    JOHN  KENNEDY, 

DUMFRIES    HOUSE. 

fWho  the  John  Kennedy  was  to  whom  Burns  addessed 
this  note,  enclosing  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  night,"  it  is 
now,  perhaps,  vain  to  inquire :  the  Kennedy  to  whom 
Mr.  Cobbett  introduces  us  was  a  Thomas — perhaps  a  re- 
lation.] 


Sir, 


Mossgiel,  Zd  March,  1786. 


1  HAVE  done  myself  the  pleasure  of  comply- 
ing with  your  request  in  sending  you  my  Cot- 
tager.— If  you  have  a  leisure  minute,  I  should 
be  glad  you  would  copy  it,  and  return  me  either 
the  original  or  the  transcript,  as  I  have  not  a 
copy  of  it  by  me,  and  I  have  a  friend  who  wishes 
to  see  it. 

"Now,  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse.'" 

ROBT.    BURNESS. 


XIV. 

TO   MR.   ROBERT   MUIR, 

KILMARNOCK. 

[The  Muirs — there  were  two  brothers — ^were  kind  and 
f  eaeious  patrons  of  the  poet.  They  subscribed  for  half-a- 
bundred  copies  of  the  Kilmarnock  edition  of  his  works, 
>nd  befriended  him  when  friends  were  iew.] 

Mossffiel,  20th  3farch,  1786. 
Dear  Sir, 
I  AM  heartily  sorry  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of 

1  PoemLXXV. 


seeing  you  as  you  returned  through  Mauchline; 
but  as  I  was  engaged,  I  could  not  be  in  town 
before  the  evening. 

I  here  enclose  you  my  "  Scotch  Drink,"  and 

"may  the follow  with  a  blessing  for  your 

edification."  I  hope,  some  time  before  we  hear 
the  gowk,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at 
Kilmarnock,  when  I  intend  we  shall  have  a  gill 
between  us,  in  a  mutchkin-stoup;  which  will  be 
a  great  comfort  and  consolation  to, 
Dear  Sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

RoBT.  Burn  ESS. 


XV. 

TO   MR.    AIKEN. 

[Robert  Aiken,  the  gentleman  to  whom  the  "  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night"  is  inscribed,  is  also  introduced  in  the 
"  Brigs  of  Ayr."  This  is  the  last  letter  to  which  Burns 
seems  to  have  subscribed  his  name  in  the  spelling  of  his 
ancestors.] 

Mossgiel,  Sd  April,  1786. 
Dear  Sir, 
I  received  your  kind  letter  with  double  plea- 
sure, on   account  of  the  second   flattering  in- 
stance of  Mrs.  C.'s  notice  and  approbation,  I 
assure  you  I 

"  Turn  out  the  burnt  side  o'  my  shin," 

as  the  famous  Ramsay,  of  jingling  memory, 
says,  at  such  a  patroness.  Present  her  my 
most  grateful  acknowledgment  in  your  very 
best  manner  of  telling  truth.  I  have  inscribed 
the  following  stanza  on  the  blank  leaf  of  Miss 
More's  Work:— 2 

My  proposals  for  publishing  I  am  just  going 
to  send  to  press.  I  expect  to  hear  from  you  by 
the  first  opportunity. 

I  am  ever,  dear  Sir, 
Yours, 

ROBT.  BUBNESS. 


XVI. 
TO  MR.   M'WHINNIE, 

"WRITER,    AYR. 

[Mr.  M'Whinnie  obtained  for  Burns  several  subscrip- 
tions for  the  first  edition  of  his  Poems,of  which  this  not* 
enclosed  the  proposals.] 


a  See  Poem  LXXVIII. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


32? 


Mossgiel,  17th  April,  1786. 
It  is  injuring  some  hearts,  those  hearts  that 
elegantly  bear  the  impression  of  the  good  Cre- 
ator, to  say  to  them  you  give  them  the  trouble 
of  obliging  a  friend ;  for  this  reason,  I  only  tell 
you  that  I  gratify  my  own  feelings  in  requesting 
your  friendly  oifices  with  respect  to  the  en- 
closed, because  I  know  it  will  gratify  yours  to 
assist  me  in  it  to  the  utmost  of  your  power, 

I  have  sent  you  four  copies,  as  I  have  no 
less  than  eight  dozen,  which  is  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  shall  ever  need. 

Be  sure  to  remember  a  poor  poet  militant  in 
your  prayers.  He  looks  forward  with  fear  and 
trembling  to  that,  to  him,  important  moment 
which  stamps  the  die  with — with — with,  per- 
haps, the  eternal  disgrace  of, 
My  dear  Sir, 

Your  humble, 

afflicted,  tormented, 
Robert  Burns. 


xvn. 

TO   MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

I"  The  small  piece,"  the  very  last  of  his  productions, 
which  the  poet  enclosed  in  this  letter,  was  "  The  Moun- 
tiiin  Daisy,"  culled  in  the  manuscript  more  properly 
"  The  Gowan."] 


Sir, 


Mossgiel,  2Qth  April,  1786. 


By  some  neglect  in  Mr.  Hamilton,  I  did  not 
hear  of  your  kind  request  for  a  subscription 
paper  'till  this  day.  1  will  not  attempt  any  ac- 
knowledgment for  this,  nor  the  manner  in  which 
I  see  your  name  in  Mr.  Hamilton's  subscription 
list.  Allow  me  only  to  say.  Sir,  I  feel  the  weight 
of  the  debt. 

I  have  here  likewise  enclosed  a  small  piece, 
the  very  latest  of  my  productions.  I  am  a  good 
deal  pleased  with  some  sentiments  myself,  as 
they  are  just  the  native  querulous  feelings  of 
a  heart,  which,  as  the  elegantly  melting  Gray 
says,  "  melancholy  has  marked  for  her  own." 

Our  race  comes  on  a-pace;    that  much-ex- 
pected scene  of  revelry  and  mirth  ;  but  to  me  it 
brings  no  joy  equal  to  that  meeting  with  which 
four  last  flattered  the  expectation  of, 
Sir, 
Your  indebted  humble  serrant, 

R.  B. 


XVIII. 
TO   MON.    JAMES   SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 

[James  Smith,  of  whom  Burns  said  he  was  sma'l  of 
stature,  but  large  of  soul,  kept  at  that  time  a  draper' 
shop  in  Mauchline,  and  was  comrade  to  the  poet  is 
many  a  wild  adventure.] 

Monday  Morning,  Mossgiel,  1786. 
Mt  dear  Sir, 
I  WENT  to  Dr.  Douglas  yesterday,  fully  re- 
solved to  take  the  opportunity  of  Captain  Smith: 
but  I  found  the  Doctor  with  a  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
White,  both  Jamaicans,  and  they  have  deranged 
my  plans  altogether.  They  assure  him  that  to 
send  me  from  Savannah  la  Mar  to  Port  Antonio 
will  cost  my  master,  Charles  Douglas,  upwards 
of  fifty  pounds;  besides  running  the  risk  of 
throwing  myself  into  a  pleuritic  fever,  in  conse- 
quence of  hard  travelling  in  the  sun.  On  these 
accounts,  he  refuses  sending  me  with  Smith, 
but  a  vessel  sails  from  Greenock  the  first  of  Sep- 
tember, right  for  the  place  of  my  destination. 
The  Captain  of  her  is  an  intimate  friend  of  Mr. 
Gavin  Hamilton's,  and  as  good  a  fellow  as  heart 
could  wish :  with  him  I  am  destined  to  go. 
Where  I  shall  shelter,  I  know  not,  but  I  hope  to 
weather  the  storm.  Perish  the  drop  of  blood  of 
mine  that  fears  them !  I  know  their  worst,  and 
am  prepared  to  meet  it ; — 

"I'll  laugh  an'  sing,  an'  shake  my  leg, 
As  lang's  I  dow." 

On  Thursday  morning,  if  you  can  muster  as 
much  self-denial  as  to  be  out  of  bed  about  seven 
o'clock,  I  shall  see  you,  as  I  ride  through  to  Cum  • 
nock.  After  all.  Heaven  bless  the  sex !  I  feel 
there  is  still  happiness  for  me  among  them : 

"  O  woman,  lovely  woman !  Heaven  design'd  you 
To  temper  man ! — we  had  been  brutes  without  you."i 

R.  B. 


XIX. 
TO  MR.   JOHN  KENNEDY. 

[Burns  was  busy  in  a  two-fold  sense  at  present :  ia 
was  seeking  patrons  in  every  quarter  for  his  contem- 
plated volume,  and  he  was  composing  fur  it  some  of  hii 
moat  exquisite  poetr}-.] 

Mossgiel,  16  May,  1796. 
Dear  Sir, 
I  HAVE  sent  you  the  above  hasty  copy  as  I 
promised.     In  about  three  or  four  weeks  I  shall 

1  Otway.    Venice  Preserved. 


326 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


probably   set   the   press  a-going.     I  am  much 
hurried  at  present,  otherwise  your  diligence,  so 
very  friendly  in  my  subscription,  should  have  a 
more  lengthened  acknowledgment  from, 
Dear  Sir, 
Your  obliged  servant, 

R.  B. 


XX. 
TO   ME.   DAVID  BRICE. 

[David  Brice  was  a  shoemaker,  and  shored  with  Smith 
the  confidence  of  the  poet  in  his  love  aJairs.  He  was 
working  in  Glasgow  when  this  letter  was  written.] 

Mossgiel,  June  12,  1786. 
Dear  Brice, 

I  RECEIVED  your  message  by  G.  Patterson,  and 
as  I  am  not  very  throng  at  present,  I  just  write 
to  let  you  know  that  there  is  such  a  worthless, 
rhyming  reprobate,  as  your  humble  servant, 
still  in  the  land  of  the  living,  though  I  can 
scarcely  say,  in  the  place  of  hope.  I  have  no 
news  to  tell  you  that  will  give  me  any  pleasure 
to  mention,  or  you  to  hear. 

Poor  ill-advised  ungrateful  Armour  came 
home  on  Friday  last.  You  have  heard  all  the 
particulars  of  that  affair,  and  a  black  aifair  it  is. 
What  she  thinks  of  her  conduct  now,  I  don't 
know;  one  thing  I  do  know — she  has  made  me 
completely  miserable.  Never  man  loved,  or 
rather  adored  a  woman  more  than  I  did  her ; 
and,  to  confess  a  truth  between  you  and  me,  I 
do  still  love  her  to  distraction  after  all,  though 
I  won't  tell  her  so  if  I  were  to  see  her,  which  I 
don't  want  to  do.  My  poor  dear  unfortunate 
Jean  !  how  happy  have  I  been  in  thy  arms  !  It 
is  not  the  losing  her  that  makes  me  so  unhappy, 
but  for  her  sake  I  feel  most  severely :  I  fore- 
see she  is  in  the  road  to,  I  am  afraid,  eternal 
ruin.  *  *  *  * 

May  Almighty  God  forgive  her  ingratitude 
and  perjury  to  me,  as  I  from  my  very  soul  for- 
give her :  and  may  his  grace  be  with  her  and 
bless  her  in  all  her  future  life  !  I  can  have  no 
nearer  idea  of  t'iie  place  of  eternal  punishment 
than  what  I  have  felt  in  my  own  bt  piast  on  her 
account.  I  have  tried  often  to  fcrget  her;  I 
have  run  into  all  kinds  of  dissipation  and  riots, 
mason-meetings,  drinking  matches,  and  other 
mischief,  to  drive  her  out  of  my  head,  but  all  in 
vain.  And  now  for  a  grand  cure ;  the  ship  is 
on  her  way  home  that  is  to  take  me  out  to 
Jamaica ;  and  then,  farewell  dear  old  Scotland ! 


and  farewell  dear  ungrateful  Jean!  for  never 
never  will  I  see  you  more. 

You  will  have  heard  that  I  am  going  to  com- 
mence poet  in  print ;  and  to  morrow  my  works 
go  to  the  press.  I  expect  it  will  be  a  volume  of 
about  two  hundred  pages — it  is  just  the  last 
foolish  action  I  intend  to  do ;  and  then  turn  a 
wise  man  as  fast  as  possible. 

Believe  me  to  be,  dear  Brice, 

Your  friend  and  well-wisher, 

R.  B. 


XXI. 
TO   MR.    ROBERT   AIKEN. 

[This  letter  was  written  under  great  distress  of  mind. 
That  separation  which  Burns  records  in  "  The  Lament," 
had,  unhappily,  taken  place  between  him  and  Je-in  Ar- 
mour, and  it  would  appear,  that  for  a  time  at  leust  a 
coldness  ensued  between  the  poet  and  the  patron,  occa- 
sioned, it  is  conjectured,  by  that  fruitful  subject  of  sor- 
row and  disquxet.  The  letter,  I  regret  to  say,  is  not 
wholly  hert/.] 


Sir, 


\_AyrsMre,  1786.] 


I  WAS  with  Wilson,  my  printer,  t'other  day, 
and  settled  all  our  by-gone  matters  between  us. 
After  I  had  paid  him  all  demands,  I  made  him 
the  offer  of  the  second  edition,  on  the  hazard  of 
being  paid  out  of  the  first  and  readiest,  which 
he  declines.  By  his  account,  the  paper  of  a 
thousand  copies  would  cost  about  twenty-seven 
pounds,  and  the  printing  about  fifteen  or  six- 
teen :  he  offers  to  agree  to  this  for  the  printing, 
if  I  will  advance  for  the  paper,  but  this,  you 
know,  is  out  of  my  power ;  so  farewell  hopes  of 
a  second  edition  till  I  grow  richer !  an  epocha 
which  I  think  will  arrive  at  the  payment  of  the 
British  national  debt. 

There  is  scarcely  anything  hurts  mo  so  much 
in  being  disappointed  of  my  second  edition,  as 
not  having  it  in  my  power  to  show  my  gratitude 
to  Mr.  Ballantyne,  by  publishing  my  poem  of 
"  The  Brigs  of  Ayr."  I  would  detest  myself  as 
a  wretch,  if  I  thought  I  were  capable  in  a  very 
long  life  of  forgetting  the  honest,  'warm,  and 
tender  delicacy  with  which  he  enters  into  my 
interests.  I  am  sometimes  pleased  with  myself 
in  my  greateful  sensations  ;  but  I  believe,  on  the 
whole,  I  have  very  little  merit  in  it,  as  my  gra- 
titude is  not  a  virtue,  the  consequence  of  reflec- 
tion ;  but  sheerly  the  instinctive  emotion  of  my 
heart,  too  inattentive  to  allow  worldly  maxims 
and  views  to  settle  into  selfish  habits. 


OF  llOBEKT   BURNS. 


327 


I  have  been  feeling  all  the  various  rotations 
and  movements  within,  respecting  the  excise. 
J  here  are  many  things  plead  strongly  against 
t ;  the  uncertainty  of  getting  soon  into  business ; 
the  consequences  of  my  follies,  which  may  per- 
haps make  it  impracticable  for  me  to  stay  at 
home ;  and  besides  I  have  for  some  time  been 
pining  under  secret  wretchedness,  from  causes 
which  you  pretty  well  know — the  pang  of  dis- 
appointment, the  sting  of  pride,  with  some  wan- 
dering stabs  of  remorse,  which  never  fail  to  set- 
tle on  my  vitals  like  vultures,  when  attention  is 
not  called  away  by  the  calls  of  society,  or  the 
vagaries  of  the  muse.  Even  in  the  hour  of  so- 
cial mirth,  my  gayety  is  the  madness  of  an  in- 
toxicated criminal  under  the  hands  of  the  exe- 
cutioner. All  these  reasons  urge  me  to  go 
abroad,  and  to  all  these  reasons  I  have  only 
one  answer — the  feelings  of  a  father.  This,  in 
the  present  mood  I  am  in,  overbalances  every- 
thing that  can  be  laid  in  the  scale  against  it.    *  * 

You  may  perhaps  think  it  an  extravagant 
fancy,  but  it  is  a  sentiment  which  strikes  home 
to  my  very  soul:  though  sceptical  in  some 
points  of  our  current  belief,  yet,  I  think,  I  have 
fc  every  evidence  for  the  reality  of  a  life  beyond  the 
stinted  bourne  of  our  present  existence ;  if  so, 
then,  how  should  I,  in  the  presence  of  that  tre- 
mendous Being,  the  Author  of  existence,  how 
should  I  meet  the  reproaches  of  those  who  stand 
to  me  in  the  dear  relation  of  children,  whom  I 
deserted  in  the  smiling  innocency  of  helpless 
infancy?  0,  thou  great  unknown  Power? — 
thou  almighty  God !  who  has  lighted  up  reason 
in  my  breast,  and  blessed  me  with  immortality! 
— I  have  frequently  wandered  from  that  order 
and  regularity  necessary  for  the  perfection  of 
thy  works,  yet  thou  hast  never  left  me  nor  for- 
j     saken  me !  *  *  *  * 

r  Since  I  wrote  the  foregoing  sheet,  I  have  seen 
something  of  the  storm  of  mischief  thickening 
over  my  folly-devoted  head.  Should  you,  my 
friends,  my  benefactors,  be  successful  in  your 
applications  for  me,  perhaps  it  may  not  be  in 
my  power,  in  that  way,  to  reap  the  fruit  of  your 
frien  lly  efforts.  What  I  have  written  in  the  pre- 
ceding pages,  is  the  settled  tenor  of  my  present 
resolution  ;  but  should  inimical  circumstances 
forbid  me  closing  with  your  kind  offer,  or  enjoy- 
ing it  only  threaten  to  entail  farther  misery 

»  ♦  *  * 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  little  reason  for  com- 
Dlaint ;  as  the  world,  in  general,  has  been  kind 


to  me  fully  up  to  my  deserts.  I  was,  for  soma 
time  past,  fast  getting  into  the  pining,  distrust- 
ful snarl  of  the  misanthrope.  I  saw  myself  alone, 
unfit  for  the  struggle  of  life,  shrinking  at  every 
rising  cloud  in  the  chance-directed  atmosphero 
of  fortune,  while  all  defenceless  I  looked  about 
in  vain  for  a  cover.  It  never  occurred  to  me, 
at  least  never  with  the  force  it  deserved,  that 
this  world  is  a  busy  scene,  and  man,  a  creature 
destined  for  a  progressive  struggle ;  and  that, 
however  I  might  possess  a  warm  heart  and 
inoffensive  manners  (which  last,  by  the  by,  was 
rather  more  than  I  could  well  boast) ;  still, 
more  than  these  passive  qualities,  there  was 
something  to  be  done.  When  all  my  school- 
fellow's and  youthful  compeers  (those  misguided 
few  excepted  who  joined,  to  use  a  Gentoo 
phrase,  the  "  hallachores"  of  the  human  race) 
were  striking  off  with  eager  hope  and  earnest 
intent,  in  some  one  or  other  of  the  many  paths 
of  busy  life,  I  was  "standing  idle  in  the  market- 
place," or  only  left  the  chase  of  the  butterfly 
from  flower  to  flower,  to  hunt  fancy  from  whim 
to  whim.  *  *  *  * 

You  see,  Sir,  that  if  to  know  one's  errors  were 
a  probability  of  mending  them,  I  stand  a  fair 
chance:  but  according  to  the  reverend  West- 
minster divines,  though  conviction  must  precede 
conversion,  it  is  very  far  from  always  implying 
it.  *  *  *  *  R.  B 


XXII. 
TO   JOHN   RICHMOND, 

SDIMBURQH. 

[The  minister  who  took  upon  him  to  pronounce  Bui*, 
a  single  inun,  as  he  intimates  in  this  letter,  was  the  Rev- 
Mr.  Auld,  of  Mauchline:  that  the  law  of  the  land  and 
the  law  of  the  church  were  at  variance  on  the  suhject  no 
one  can  deny.] 

Mossgiel,  9M  July,  1786. 
My  dear  Friend, 

With  the  sincerest  grief  I  read  your  letter. 
You  are  truly  a  son  of  misfortune.  I  shall  be 
extremely  anxious  to  hear  from  you  how  your 
health  goes  on  ;  if  it  is  in  any  way  re-etlivb- 
lishing,  or  if  Leith  promises  well ;  in  short,  how 
you  feel  in  the  inner  man. 

No  news  worth  anything:  only  godly  Bryan 
was  in  the  inquisition  yesterday,  and  half  the 
country-side  as  witnesses  against  him.  He  still 
stands  out  steady  and  denying :  but  proof  waa 
led  yesternight  of  circumstances  Lighly  suspi- 


128 


GENEKAL   OOIlKESJb'UiN  JL^EiN  CE 


cious:  almost  de  facto,  one  of  the  servant  girls 
made  faith  that  she  upon  a  time  rashly  entered 
the  house — to  speak  in  your  cant,  "in  the  hour 
of  cause." 

I  have  waited  on  Armour  since  her  return 
home  ;  not  from  any  the  least  view  of  reconcili- 
ation, but  merely  to  ask  for  her  health  and — to 
you  I  will  confess  it — from  a  foolish  hankering 
fondness — very  ill  placed  indeed.  The  mother 
forbade  me  the  house,  nor  did  Jean  show  the 
penitence  that  might  have  been  expected.  How- 
ever, the  priest,  I  am  informed,  will  give  me  a 
certificate  as  a  single  man,  if  I  comply  with  the 
rules  of  the  church,  which  for  that  very  reason 
I  intend  to  do. 

I  am  going  to  put  on  sack-cloth  and  ashes 
this  day.  I  am  indulged  so  far  as  to  appear  in 
my  own  seat.  Peccavi,  pater,  miserere  mei.  My 
book  will  be  ready  in  a  fortnight.  If  you  have 
any  subscribers,  return  them  by  Connel.  The 
Lord  stand  with  the  righteous :  amen,  amen. 

K  B. 


XXIII. 


TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNE, 


[There  is  a  plain  account  in  this  letter  of  the  destruction 
of  the  lines  of  marriage  which  united,  as  far  as  a  civil 
contract  in  a  manner  civil  can,  the  poet  and  Jean  Ar- 
mour. Aiken  was  consulted,  and  in  consequence  of  his 
advice,  the  certificate  of  marriage  was  destroyed.] 

Honoured  Sib, 
My  proposals  came  to  hand  last  night,  and 
knowing  that  you  would  wish  to  have  it  in  your 
power  to  do  me  a  service  as  early  as  anybody, 
I  enclose  you  half  a  sheet  of  them.  I  must 
consult  you,  first  opportunity,  on  the  propriety 
of  sending  my  quondam  friend,  Mr.  Aiken,  a 
copy.  If  he  is  now  reconciled  to  my  character 
us  an  honest  man,  I  would  do  it  with  all  my 
BOTil ;  but  I  would  not  be  beholden  to  the  noblest 
being  ever  God  created,  if  he  imagined  me  to  be 
a  rascal.  Apropos,  old  Mr.  Armour  prevailed 
with  him  to  mutilate  that  unlucky  paper  yester- 
day. Would  you  believe  it  ?  though  I  had  not 
a  hope,  nor  even  a  wish,  to  make  her  mine  after 
her  conduct ;  yet,  when  he  told  me  the  names 
were  all  out  of  the  paper,  my  heart  died  within 
me,  and  he  cut  my  veins  with  the  news.  Per- 
dition seize  her  falsehood! 

R.  B. 


XXIV. 
Te    MR.   DAVID  BRICE. 

SHOEMAKER,    GLASGOW. 

[The  letters  of  Burns  at  this  sad  period  of  liis  life  ar« 
full  of  his  private  sorrows.  Had  Jean  Armour  Keen  ief 
to  the  guidance  of  her  own  heart,  the  story  of  her  early 
years  would  have  been  brighter.] 

Mossgiel,  11  th  July,  1786. 
I  HAVE  been  so  throng  printing  my  Poems, 
that  I  could  scarcely  find  as  much  time  as  to 
write  to  you.  Poor  Armour  is  come  back  again 
to  Mauchline,  and  I  went  to  call  for  her,  and 
her  mother  forbade  me  the  house,  nor  did  she 
herself  express  much  sorrow  for  what  she  has 
done.  I  have  already  appeared  publicly  in 
church,  and  was  indulged  in  the  liberty  of  stand- 
ing in  my  own  seat.  I  do  this  to  get  a  certi- 
ficate as  a  bachelor,  which  Mr.  Auld  has  pro- 
mised me.  I  am  now  fixed  to  go  for  the  West 
Indies  in  October.  Jean  and  her  friends  insisted 
much  that  she  should  stand  along  with  me  in  the 
kirk,  but  the  minister  would  not  allow  it,  which 
bred  a  great  trouble  I  assure  you,  and  I  am 
blamed  as  the  cause  of  it,  though  I  am  sure  I 
am  innocent;  but  I  am  very  much  pleased,  for 
all  that,  not  to  have  had  her  company.  I  have 
no  news  to  tell  you  that  I  remember.  I  am 
really  happy  to  hear  of  your  welfare,  and  that 
you  are  so  well  in  Glasgow.  I  must  certainly 
see  you  before  I  leave  the  country.  I  shall  ex 
pect  to  hear  from  you  soon,  and  am. 
Dear  Brice, 

Yours, — R.  B. 


XXV. 

TO   MR.   JOHN   RICHMOND. 

[When  this  letter  was  written  the  poet  was  sku  >irf 
from  place  to  place :  the  merciless  pack  of  the  la\i  had 
been  uncoup.ed  at  his  heels.  Mr.  Armour  did  not  wish  (0 
imprison,  but  to  drive  him  from  the  country  ] 

Old  Rome  Forest,  SOth  July,  1786. 
My  DEAR  Richmond, 
My  hour  is  now  come — you  and  I  will  never 
meet  in  Britain  more.  I  have  orders  within 
three  weeks  at  farthest,  to  repair  aboard  the 
Nancy,  Captain  Smith,  from  Clyde  to  Jamaica, 
and  call  at  Antigua.  This,  except  to  our  friend 
Smith,  whom  God  long  preserve,  is  a  secret 
about  Mauchline.     Would  you  believe  it?    Ar 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


32i) 


mour  has  got  a  warrant  to  throw  me  in  jail  till 
I  find  security  for  an  enormous  sum.  This  they 
keep  an  entire  secret,  but  I  got  it  by  a  channel 
they  little  dream  of;  and  I  am  wandering  from 
one  friend's  house  to  another,  and,  like  a  true 
eon  of  the  gospel,  *'  have  nowhere  to  lay  my 
head."  I  know  you  will  pour  an  execration  on 
hej  head,  but  spare  the  poor,  ill-advised  girl, 
for  my  sake  ;  though  may  all  the  furies  that 
rend  the  injured,  enraged  lover's  bosom,  await 
her  motlier  until  her  latest  hour !  I  write  in  a 
moment  of  rage,  reflecting  on  my  miserable 
situation — exiled,  abandoned,  forlorn.  I  can 
write  no  more — let  me  hear  from  you  by  the 
return  of  coach.  I  will  write  you  ere  I  go. 
I  am  dear  Sir, 

Yours,  here  and  hereafter, 
R.  B. 


XXVI. 

TO   MR.   ROBERT   MUIR, 

KILMAENOCK. 

^^Buras  never  tried  to  conceal  either  his  joys  or  his  sor- 
rows: he  sent  copies  of  his  favourite  pieces,  and  intima- 
tions of  much  that  befel  him  to  his  chief  friends  and  com- 
rades— this  brief  note  was  made  to  carry  double.] 

Mossffiel,  Friday  7ioon. 
My  Fbiend,  my  Brother, 

Warm  recollection  of  an  absent  friend  presses 
BO  hard  upon  my  heart,  that  I  send  him  the 
prefixed  bagatelle  (the  Calf),  pleased  with  the 
thought  that  it  will  greet  the  man  of  my  bosom, 
and  be  a  kind  of  distant  language  of  friend- 
ship. 

You  will  have  heard  that  poor  Armour  has 
repaid  me  double.  A  very  fine  boy  and  a  girl 
have  awakened  a  thought  and  feelings  that  thrill, 
Bome  with  tender  pressure  and  some  with  fore- 
boding anguish,  through  my  soul. 

The  poem  was  nearly  an  extemporaneous  pro- 
duction, on  a  wager  with  Mr.  Hamilton,  that  I 
wouli  not  produce  a  poem  on  the  subject  in  a 
g-ven  time. 

If  you  think  it  worth  while,  read  it  to  Charles 
and  Mr.  W.  Parker,  and  if  they  choose  a  copy 
of  it,  it  is  at  their  service,  as  they  are  men 
whose  friendship  I  shall  be  proud  to  claim,  both 
in  this  world  and  that  which  is  to  come. 

I  believe  all  hopes  of  staying  at  home  will  be 
abottive.  but  more  of  this  when,  in  the  latter 


part  of  next  week,  you  shall  be  troubled  with  a 
visit  from, 

My  dear  Sir, 

Y^our  most  devoted, 

R.  B. 


XXVII. 
TO   MRS.   DUNLOP, 

OF     DUNLOP. 

flVTrs.  Dunlop  was  a  poetess,  and  had  the  blood  of  the 
Wallaces  in  lier  veins :  though  she  disliked  the  irregu- 
larities of  the  poet,  she  scorned  to  get  into  a  fine  moral 
passion  al)oul  ffdiies  which  could  not  l)e  lielped,  and  con 
tinned  her  friendship  to  the  last  of  iiis  life.] 

Ayrshire,  1786. 
Madam, 

I  AM  truly  sorry  I  was  not  at  home  yesterday, 
when  I  was  so  much  honoured  with  your  order 
for  my  copies,  and  incomparably  more  by  the 
handsome  compliments  you  are  pleased  to  pay 
my  poetic  abilities.  I  am  fully  persuaded  that 
there  is  not  any  class  of  mankind  so  feelingly 
alive  to  the  titillations  of  applause  as  the  sons 
of  Parnassus :  nor  is  it  easy  to  conceive  how 
the  heart  of  the  poor  bard  dances  with  rapture, 
when  those,  whose  character  in  life  gives  them 
a  right  to  be  polite  judges,  honour  him  with 
their  approbation.  Had  you  been  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  me,  Madam,  you  could  not 
have  touched  my  darling  heart-chord  more 
sweetly  than  by  noticing  my  attempts  to  cele- 
brate your  illustrious  ancestor,  the  Saviour  of 
his  Country. 

"  Great  patriot  hero !  ill-requited  chief !"» 

The  first  book  I  met  with  in  my  early  years, 
which  I  perused  with  pleasure,  was,  "  The  Life 
of  Hannibal;"  the  next  was,  "The  History  of 
Sir  William  Wallace :"  for  several  of  my  earlier 
years  I  had  few  other  authors ;  and  many  a 
solitary  hour  have  I  stole  out,  after  the  labori- 
ous vocations  of  the  day,  to  shed  a  tear  over 
tlieir  glorious,  but  unfortunate  stories.  In  the ;; » 
boyish  days  I  remember,  in  particular,  being 
struck  with  that  part  of  Wallace's  story  where 
these  lines  occur — 

«<  Syne  to  the  Leglen  wood,  when  it  was  late. 
To  niuke  a  silent  and  a  safe  retreat." 

I  chose  a  fine  summer  Sunday,  the  only  day 
my  line  of  life  allowed,  and  walked  half  a  dozen 

1  Thonuoo. 


530 


GENERAL   COllRESPOxXDENCE 


of  miles  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Leglen  wood, 
with  as  much  devout  enthusiasm  as  ever  pil- 
grim did  to  Loretto ;  and,  as  I  explored  every 
den  and  dell  where  I  could  suppose  my  heroic 
coTintryman  to  have  lodged,  I  recollect  (for  even 
tht;n  I  was  a  rhymer)  that  my  heart  glowed 
with  a  wish  to  be  able  to  make  a  song  on  him 
in  some  measure  equal  to  his  merits. 

R.  B. 


XXVIII. 
TO   MR.    JOHN   KENNEDY. 

[Tt  is  a  curious  chapter  in  the  life  of  Burns  to  count 
the  number  of  letters  wliich  he  wrote,  the  number  of  fine 
poems  he  composed,  and  tlie  number  of  places  which  he 
visited  in  the  unhappy  summer  and  autumn  of  1786.] 

Kilmarnock,  August,  1786. 
My  dear  Sib, 
Your  truly  facetious  epistle  of  the  3d  inst. 
gave  me  much  entertainment.  I  was  sorry  I 
had  not  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  as  I  passed 
your  way,  but  we  shall  bring  up  all  our  lee  way 
on  Wednesday,  the  16th  current,  when  I  hope 
to  have  it  in  my  power  to  call  on  you  and  take 
a  kind,  very  probably  a  last  adieu,  before  I  go 
for  Jamaica ;  and  I  expect  orders  to  repair  to 
Greenock  every  day. — I  have  at  last  made  my 
public  appearance,  and  am  solemnly  inaugu- 
rated into  the  numerous  class. — Could  I  have 
got  a  carrier,  you  should  have  had  a  score  of 
vouchers  for  my  authorship  ;  but  now  you  have 
them,  let  them  speak  for  themselves. — 

Farewell,  my  dear  friend !  may  guid  luck  hit 

you, 
And  'mang  her  favourites  admit  you ! 
If  e'er  Detraction  shore  to  smit  you. 

May  nane  believe  him  ! 
And  ony  de'il  that  thinks  to  get  you, 

Good  Lord  deceive  him. 
R.  B. 


XXIX. 

TO   MR.   JAMES   BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[The  {  yod  and  generous  James  Burness,  of  Montrose, 
was  ever  rendy  to  rejoice  with  his  cousin's  success  or 
sympathize  with  his  sorrows,  but  he  did  not  like  the 
change  which  came  over  the  old  northern  surname  of 


Burness.  when  the  bard  modified  it  into  Burns :  the  name, 
now  a  rising  one  in  India,  is  spelt  Burnes.] 

Mossgiel,  Tuesday  noon,  Sept.  26,  178&. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  THIS  moment  receive  yours — receive  it  with 
the  honest  hospitable  wai-mth  of  a  friend's 
welcome.  Whatever  comes  from  you  wakens  al- 
ways up  the  better  blood  about  my  hevrt,  which 
your  kind  little  recollections  of  my  parental 
friends  carries  as  far  as  it  will  go.  'Tis  there 
that  man  is  blest !  'Tis  there,  my  friend,  man 
feels  a  consciousness  of  something  within  him 
above  the  trodden  clod !  The  grateful  reve- 
rence to  the  hoary  (earthly)  author  of  his  being 
— the  burning  glow  when  he  clasps  the  woman 
of  his  soul  to  his  bosom — the  tender  yearnings 
of  heart  for  the  little  angels  to  whom  he  has 
given  existence — these  nature  has  poured  in 
milky  streams  about  the  human  heart ;  and  the 
man  who  never  rouses  them  to  action,  by  the 
inspiring  influences  of  their  proper  objects, 
loses  by  far  the  most  pleasurable  part  of  his 
existence. 

My  departure  is  uncertain,  but  I  do  not  think 
it  will  be  till  after  harvest.  I  will  be  on  very 
short  allowance  of  time  indeed,  if  I  do  not  com- 
ply with  your  friendly  invitation.  When  it  will 
be  I  don't  know,  but  if  I  can  make  my  wish 
good,  I  will  endeavour  to  drop  you  a  line  some 
time   before.      My   best   compliments  to  Mrs. 

;  I  should  [be]  equally  mortified  should  I 

drop  in  when  she  is  abroad,  but  of  that  I  sup- 
pose* there  is  little  chance. 

What  I  have  wrote  heaven  knows;  I  have  not 
time  to  review  it ;  so  accept  of  it  in  the  beaten 
way  of  friendship.  With  the  ordinary  phrase 
— perhaps  rather  more  than  the  ordinary  sin- 
cerity, 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Ever  yours, 

R.  B. 


XXX. 

TO   MISS   ALEXANDER. 

[This  letter,  Robert  Chambers  says,  concluded  v.*ith 
requesting  Miss  Alexander  to  allow  the  poet  to  print  the 
song  which  it  enclosed,  in  a  second  edition  of  his  Poems. 
Her  neglect  in  not  replying  to  this  request  is  a  very  good 
poetic  reason  for  his  wrath.  Many  of  Burns's  lettera 
have  been  printed,  it  is  right  to  say,  from  the  rough 
drafts  found  among  the  poet's  papers  at  his  death.  Thia 
is  one.] 


OF   IIOBEIIT   BURNS. 


331 


Mossgiel,  18th  Nov.  1786. 
Madam, 
Poets  are  such  outr6  beings,  so  much  the 
ehildren  of  wayward  fancy  and  capricious  whim, 
that  I  believe  the  world  generally  allows  them  a 
larger  latitude  in  the  laws  of  propriety,  than  the 
sober  sons  of  judgment  and  prudence.  I  men- 
tion this  as  an  apology  for  the  liberties  that  a 
nameless  stranger  has  taken  with  you  in  the  en- 
closed poem,  which  he  begs  leave  to  present  you 
with  Whether  it  has  poetical  merit  any  way 
worthy  of  the  theme,  I  am  not  the  proper  judge; 
but  it  is  the  best  my  abilities  can  prod  ice ;  and 
what  to  a  good  heart  will,  perhaps,  be  a  superior 
grace,  it  is  equally  sincere  as  fervent. 

The  scenery  was  nearly  taken  from  real  life, 
though  I  dare  say.  Madam,  you  do  not  recollect 
it,  as  I  believe  you  scarcely  noticed  the  poetic 
reveur  as  he  wandered  by  you.  1  had  roved  out 
as  chance  directed,  in  the  favourite  haunts  of 
my  muse  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  to  view  nature 
in  all  the  gayety  of  the  vernal  year.  The  even- 
ing sun  was  flaming  over  the  distant  western 
hills  ;  not  a  breath  stirred  the  crimson  opening 
blossom,  or  the  verdant  spreading  leaf.  It  was 
a  golden  moment  for  a  poetic  heart.  I  listened 
to  the  feathered  warblers,  pouring  their  har- 
mony on  every  hand,  with  a  congenial  kindred 
regard,  and  frequently  turned  out  of  my  path, 
lest  I  should  disturb  their  little  songs,  or 
frighten  them  to  another  station.  Surely,  said 
I  to  myself,  he  must  be  a  wretch  indeed,  who, 
regardless  of  your  harmonious  endeavour  to 
please  him,  can  eye  your  elusive  flights  to  dis- 
cover your  secret  recesses,  and  to  rob  you  of 
all  the  property  nature  gives  you — your  dearest 
comforts,  your  helpless  nestlings.  Even  the 
hoary  hawthorn  twig  that  shot  across  the  way, 
what  heart  at  such  a  time  but  must  have  been 
interested  in  its  welfare,  and  wished  it  preserved 
from  the  rudely-browsing  cattle,  or  the  wither- 
ing eastern  blast?  Such  was  the  scene, — and 
Buch  the  hour,  when,  in  a  corner  of  my  prospect, 
I  spied  one  of  the  fairest  pieces  of  nature's 
workmanship  that  ever  crowned  a  poetic  land- 
scape or  met  a  poet's  eye,  those  visionary  bards 
excepte^  I  who  hold  commerce  with  aerial  beings! 
Had  Calumny  and  Villany  taken  my  walk,  they 
had  at  that  moment  sworn  eternal  peace  with 
BUch  an  object. 

Wliat  an  hour  of  inspiration  for  a  poet !  It 
would  have  raised  plain  dull  historic  prosi  into 
kietaphor  measure. 


The  enclosed  song  was  the  work  of  my  return 
home:  and  perhaps  it  but  poorly  answers  what 
might  have  been  expected  from  such  a  sceue. 
I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
Madam, 
Your  most  obedient  and  very 
humble  Servant, 

R.  B 


XXXL 

TO  MRS.   STEWART, 

OF   STAIK  AND  AFTON. 

[Mrs.  Stewart,  of  Stair  and  Afton,  was  the  first  person 
of  note  in  the  West  who  had  the  taste  to  see  and  fee.'  tl  e 
genius  of  Burns.  He  used  to  relate  how  his  liearl  fiut- 
tered  when  he  first  walked  into  the  parlour  of  tlie  toweri 
of  Stair,  to  hear  that  lady's  opinion  of  some  of  his  songs  J 

[1786.] 
Madam, 

The  hurry  of  my  preparations  for  going 
abroad  has  hindered  me  from  performing  my 
promise  so  soon  as  I  intended.  I  have  here  sent 
you  a  parcel  of  songs,  &c.,  which  never  made 
their  appearance,  except  to  a  friend  or  two  at 
most.  Perhaps  some  of  them  may  be  no  great 
entertainment  to  you,  but  of  that  I  am  far  from 
being  an  adequate  judge.  The  song  to  the  tune 
of  "  Ettrick  Banks"  [The  bonnie  lass  of  Bal- 
lochmyle]  you  will  easily  see  the  impropriety 
of  exposing  much,  even  in  manuscript.  I  think, 
myself,  it  has  some  merit :  both  as  a  tolerable 
description  of  one  of  nature's  sweetest  scenes, 
a  July  evening,  and  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of 
nature's  workmanship,  the  finest  indeed  we 
know  anything  of,  an  amiable,  beautiful  young 
woman;'  but  I  have  no  common  friend  to  pro- 
cure me  that  permission,  without  which  I  would 
not  dare  to  spread  the  copy. 

I  am  quite  aware,  Madam,  what  task  the  world 
would  assign  me  in  this  letter.  The  obscure 
bard,  when  any  of  the  great  condescend  to  take 
notice  of  him,  should  heap  the  altar  with  the  in- 
cense of  flattery.  Their  high  ancestry,  their 
own  great  and  god-like  qualities  and  actions, 
should  be  recounted  with  the  most  exaggerated 
descrij  tion.  This,  Madam,  is  a  task  for  which 
I  am  altogether  unfit.  Besides  a  certain  disquali- 
fying pride  of  heart,  I  know  nothing  of  your 
connexions  in  life,  and  have  no  access  to  where 


1  Miss  Alexander 


332 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


your  real  character  is  to  be  found — the  company 
of  your  compeers :  and  more,  I  am  afraid  that 
evet.  the  most  refined  adulation  is  by  no  means 
tht  road  to  your  good  opinion. 

One  feature  of  your  character  I  shall  ever  with 
grateful  pleasure  remember ; — the  reception  I 
got  when  I  had  the  honour  of  waiting  on  you  at 
Stair.  I  am  little  acquainted  with  politeness, 
but  r  know  a  good  deal  of  benevolence  of  tem- 
fer  and  goodness  of  heart.  Surely  did  those  in 
exalted  stations  know  how  happy  they  could 
make  sonie  classes  of  their  inferiors  by  conde- 
scension and  affability,  they  would  never  stand 
BO  high,  measuring  out  with  every  look  the  height 
of  their  elevation,  but  condescend  as  sweetly  as 
did  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair. 

R.  B. 


XXXII. 

IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  NINE.     AMEN. 

[The  songr  or  ballad  which  one  of  the  "Deil'syeld 
Nowte"  was  commanded  to  burn,  was  "  Holy  Willie's 
Prayer,-'  it  is  believed.  Currie  interprets  the  '•  Deil's  yeld 
Nowie,"  to  mean  old  bachelors,  which,  if  right,  points 
to  some  other  of  his  compositions,  for  purgation  by  fire. 
Gilhert  Burns  says  it  is  a  scoffing  appellation  sometimes 
given  to  sheriffs'  officers  and  other  executors  of  the  law.] 

We,  Robert  Burns,  by  virtue  of  a  warrant  from 
Nature,  bearing  date  the  twenty-fifth  day  of 
January,  Anno  Domini  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  fifty-nine,'  Poet  Laureat,  and  Bard 
in  Chief,  in  and  over  the  districts  and  countries 
of  Kyle,  Cunningham,  and  Carrick,  of  old  extent, 
To  our  trusty  and  well-beloved  William  Chal- 
mers and  John  M'Adam,  students  and  practi- 
tioners in  the  ancient  and  mysterious  science  of 
confounding  x'ight  and  wrong. 
Right  Tkusty  : 

Be  it  known  unto  you  that  whereas  in  the 
course  of  our  care  and  watchings  over  the  order 
and  police  of  all  and  sundry  the  manufacturers, 
retainers,  and  venders  of  poesy ;  bards,  poets, 
poetasters,  rhymers,  jinglers,  songsters,  ballad- 
singers,  &c.  &c.  &c.  &c.,  male  and  female  — 
We  have  discovered  a  certain  nefarious,  abo- 
minable, and  wicked  song  or  ballad,  a  copy 
whereof  We  have  here  enclosed ;  Our  Will 
therefore  is,  that  Ye  pitch  upon  and  appoint 
the  most  execrable  individual  of  that  most  exe- 
crable species,  known  by  the  appellation,  phrase, 
and  nick-name  of  The  Deil's  Yeld  Nowte :  and 

I  HiB  birth-day. 


after  having  caused  him  to  kindle  a  fire  at  the 
Cross  of  Ayr,  ye  shall,  at  noontide  of  the  day, 
put  into  the  said  wretch's  merciless  hands  the 
said  copy  of  the  said  nefarious  and  wicked 
song,  to  be  consumed  by  fire  in  the  presence  of 
all  beholders,  in  abhorrence  of,  and  terrorem 
to,  all  such  compositions  and  composers.  And 
this  in  nowise  leave  ye  undone,  but  have  it  exe- 
cuted in  every  point  as  this  our  mandate  bears, 
before  the  twenty-fourth  current,  when  in  per- 
son We  hope  to  applaud  your  faithfulness  and 
zeal. 

Given  at  Mauchline  this  twentieth  day  of  No- 
vember, Anno  Domini  one  thousand  se^  jn  hun- 
dred and  eighty-six. 

God  save  the  Bard ! 


XXXIIl. 

TO   MR.    ROBERT   M  U 1  R. 

[The  expedition  to  Edinburgh,  to  which  this  short 
letter  alludes,  wap,  undertnken,  it  is  needless  to  say,  in 
consequence  of  a  warm  and  generous  commendation  of 
the  genius  of  Burns  written  by  Dr.  Blacklock,  to  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Lawrie,and  communicated  by  Gavin  Hamilton 
to  the  poet,  when  he  was  on  tlie  wing  for  the  West 
Indies.] 

Mossgiel,  \%lh  Nov.,  1786. 
Mt  dear  Sir, 
Enclosed  you  have  "  Tam  Samson,"  as  I  in- 
tend to  print  him.  I  am  thinking  for  my  Edin- 
burgh expedition  on  Monday  or  Tuesday,  come 
se'ennight,  for  pos.  I  will  see  you  on  Tuesday 
first. 

I  am  ever, 

Your  much  indebted, 

R.  B. 


XXXIV. 

TO  DR.    MACKENZIE, 

MAUCHLINE  ; 
ENCLOSING  THE  VERSES  ON  DINING  WITH  LORD  DAEK. 

[To  the  kind  and  venerable  Dr.  Mnekenzie,  the  po« 
was  indebted  for  some  valuiible  friendships,  and  his  bio- 
graphers for  some  valuable  information  respecting  tlic 
early  days  of  Burns.] 

Wednesday  Morning. 
Dear  Sir, 
I  NEVER  spent  an  afternoon  among  great  folks 
with  half  that  pleasure  as   when,  in  company 
with  you,  I  had  the  honour  of  paying  my  de- 
voirs to  that  plain,  honest,  worthy  man,   th« 


OF   KOBEliT   BUllNS. 


333 


professor.  [Dugald  Stewart.]  I  would  be  de- 
lighted to  see  him  perform  acts  of  kindness  and 
friendship,  though  I  were  not  the  object ;  he 
does  it  with  such  a  grace.  I  thinlc  his  charac- 
ter, divided  into  ten  parts,  stands  thus — four 
parts  Socrates — four  parts  Nathaniel — and  two 
parts  Shakspeare's  Brutus. 

The  foregoing  verses  were  really  extempore, 
but  a  little  corrected  since.  They  may  enter- 
tain you  a  little  with  the  help  of  that  partiality 
with  which  you  are  so  good  as  to  favour  the 

performances  of. 

Dear  Sir, 
Your  very  humble  servant, 
R.  B. 


XXXV. 
TO  GAVIN   HAMILTON,   ESQ.^ 

MAUCHLINK. 

[Prom  Gavin  Hamilton  Burns  and  his  brother  took  the 
farm  of  Mossgiel :  the  landlord  was  not  slow  in  perceiv- 
ing the  genius  of  Robert:  he  had  him  frequently  at  his 
table,  and  the  poet  repaid  this  notice  by  verse  not  likely 
Boon  to  die.] 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  7(h,  1786. 
Honoured  Sir, 

I  HAVE  paid  every  attention  to  your  com- 
mands, but  can  only  sny  what  perhaps  you  will 
have  heard  before  this  reach  you,  that  Muir- 
kirklands  were  bought  by  a  John  Gordon,  W. 
S.,  but  for  whom  I  know  not;  Mauchlands, 
Haugh,  Miln,  &c.,  by  a  Frederick  Fothering- 
ham,  supposed  to  be  for  Ballochmyle  Laird,  and 
Adamhill  and  Shawood  were  bought  for  Oswald's 
folks, — This  is  so  imperfect  an  account,  and 
will  be  so  late  ere  it  reach  you,  that  were  it  not 
to  discharge  my  conscience  I  would  not  trouble 
you  with  it ;  but  after  all  my  diligence  I  could 
make  it  no  sooner  nor  better. 

For  my  own  affairs,  I  am  in  a  fair  way  of  be- 
coming as  eminent  as  Thomas  k  Kempis  or  John 
Bunyan ;  and  you  may  expect  henceforth  to  see 
my  birth-day  inserted  among  the  wonderful 
events,  in  the  Poor  Robin's  and  Aberdeen  Alma- 
nacks, along  with  the  Black  Monday,  and  the 
battle  of  Bothwell  bridge. — My  Lord  Glencairn 
and  the  Dean  of  Faculty,  Mr.  H.  Erskine,  have 
taken  me  under  their  wing ;  and  by  all  proba- 
bility I  shall  soon  be  the  tenth  worthy,  and 
the  eighth  wise  man  in  the  world.  Through  my 
lord's  influence  it  is  inserted  in  the  records 
of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  that  they  vmiversally, 


one  and  all,  subscribe  for  the  second  edition.—. 
My  subscription  bills  come  out  to-morrow,  and 
you  shall  have  some  of  them  next  post. — I  have 
met,  in  Mr.  Dalrymple,  of  Orangefield,  what 
Solomon  emphatically  calls  *'  a  friend  that  stick- 
eth  closer  than  a  brother." — The  warmth  with 
which  he  interests  himself  in  my  affairs  is  of 
the  same  enthusiastic  kind  which  you,  Mr  Aiken, 
and  the  few  patrons  that  took  notice  of  my 
earlier  poetic  days,  showed  for  the  poor  unlucky 
devil  of  a  poet. 

I  always  remember  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Misa 
Kennedy  in  my  poetic  prayers,  but  you  both  in 
prose  and  verse. 

May  cauld  ne'er  catch  you  but  a  hap, 
Nor  hunger  but  in  plenty's  lap ! 
Amen ! 

R.  B 


XXXVI. 
TO  JOHN  EALLANTYNE,   ESQ., 

BANKER,  AYR. 

[This  is  the  second  letter  which  Burns  wrote,  after  hiB 
arrival  in  Edinburgh,  and  it  is  remarkable  because  it  dis- 
tinctly imputes  his  introduction  to  the  Earl  of  Glencairn, 
to  Dalrymi  le,  of  Orangefield  :  though  he  elsewhere  saya 
this  was  done  by  Mr.  Dalzell ;— perhaps  both  those  gen- 
tlemen had  a  hand  in  this  good  deed .] 

Edinburgh,  IZth  Dec.  1786. 
My  honoured  Friend, 
I  WOULD  not  write  you  till  I  could  have  it  in  my 
power  to  give  you  some  account  of  myself  and  my 
matters,  which,  by  the  by,  is  often  no  easy  task. 
— I  arrived  here  on  Tuesday  was  se'ennight,  and 
have  suffered  ever  since  I  came  to  town  with  a 
miserable  headache  and  stomach  complaint, 
but  am  now  a  good  deal  better. — I  have  found  a 
worthy  warm  friend  in  Mr.  Dalrymple,  of  Orange- 
field, who  introduced  me  to  Lord  Glencairn, 
a  man  whose  worth  and  brotherly  kindness  to 
me,  I  shall  remember  when  time  shall  be  no 
more. — By  his  interest  it  is  passed  in  the  •'  Cale- 
donian Hunt,"  and  entered  in  their  books,  that 
they  are  to  take  each  a  copy  of  the  seconJ  edi- 
tion, for  which  they  are  to  pay  one  guinea.— 
I  have  been  introduced  to  a  good  many  of  the 
noblesse,  but  my  avowed  patrons  and  patronesses 
are  the  Duchess  of  Gordon — the  Countess  of 
Glencairn,  with  my  Lord,  and  Lady  Betty  ' — 
the  Dean  of  Faculty — Sir  John  Whitefoord — I 

1  Lady  Betty  Cunoinfham. 


S34 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


have  likewise  warm  friends  among  the  literati; 
Professors  Stewart,  Blair,  and  Mr.  Mackenzie — 
the  Man  of  Feeling. — An  unknown  hand  left  ten 
guineas  for  the  Ayrshire  bard  with  Mr.  Sibbald, 
which  I  got. — I  since  have  discovered  my  gene- 
rous unknown  friend  to  be  Patrick  Miller,  Esq., 
brother  to  the  Justice  Clerk ;  and  drank  a  glass 
of  claret  with  him,  by  invitation,  at  his  own 
house,  yesternight.  I  am  nearly  agreed  with 
Creech  to  print  my  book,  and  I  suppose  I  will 
begin  on  Monday.  I  will  send  a  subscription 
bill  or  two,  next  post ;  when  I  intend  writing 
my  first  kind  patron,  Mr.  Aiken.  I  saw  his  son 
to-day,  and  he  is  very  well. 

Dugald  Stewart,  and  some  of  my  learned 
friends,  put  me  in  the  periodical  paper,  called 
The  Lounger,"  a  copy  of  which  I  here  enclose 
you. — I  was.  Sir,  when  I  was  first  honoured 
with  your  notice,  too  obscure ;  now  I  tremble 
lest  I  should  be  ruined  by  being  dragged  too 
suddenly  into  the  glare  of  polite  and  learned 
observation. 

I  shall  certainly,  my  ever  honoured  patron, 
write  you  an  account  of  my  every  step ;  and 
better  health  and  more  spirits  may  enable  me 
to  make  it  something  better  than  this  stupid 
matter-of-fact  epistle. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

Good  Sir, 
Your  ever  grateful  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 

If  any  of  my  friends  write  me,  my  direction 
is,  care  of  Mr.  Creech,  bookseller. 


XXXVII. 


TO   MR.    ROBERT   MUlR. 

["Muir,  thy  weaknesses,"  says  Burns,  writing  of  this 
pentlemin  to  Mrs.  Duniop,  "  thy  weaknesses  were  the 
aberrations  of  human  nature;  but  thy  heart  glowed  with 
everything  generous,  manly,  and  noble:  and  if  ever 
email  ion  from  the  All-good  Being  animated  a  human 
(ovnzj    "  was  tliine. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  20th,  1786. 

My  dear  Fbiend, 

I  HAVE  just  time  for  the  carrier,  to  tell  you 

that  T  received  your  letter  ;  of  which  I  shall 

say  no  more  but  what  a  lass  of  my  acquaintance 

said  of  her  bastard  wean  ;  she  said  she  "  did 


'  Th  1  pnper  here  alluded  to,  was  written  by  Mr.  Mac- 
kenag,  the  celebrated  author  of  "  The  Man  of  Feeling." 


na  ken  wha  was  the  father  exactly,  but  she 
suspected  it  was  some  o'  the  bonny  blackguard 
smugglers,  for  it  was  like  them."  So  I  only 
say  your  obliging  epistle  was  like  you.  I  en- 
close you  a  parcel  of  subscription  bills.  Youf 
affair  of  sixty  copies  is  also  like  you ;  but  it 
would  not  be  like  me  to  comply. 

Your  friend's  notion  of  my  life  has  put  a 
crotchet  in  my  head  of  sketching  it  in  some 
future  epistle  to  you.  My  compliments  to 
Charles  and  Mr.  Parker.  R.  B. 


XXXVIII. 


TO   MR.   WILLIAM   CHALMERS, 

WRITEB,    AYR. 

[William  Chalmers  drew  out  the  assignment  of  the 
copyright  of  Burns's  Poems,  in  favour  of  his  brother 
Gilbert,  and  for  the  mnintenance  of  his  natural  child, 
when  engaged  to  go  to  the  West  Indies,  in  the  autumn 
of  1786.] 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  27,  1786. 
My  dear  Friend, 
I  CONFESS  I  have  sinned  the  sin  for  which 
there  is  hardly  any  forgiveness — ingratitude  to 
friendship — in  not  writing  you  sooner  ;  but  of 
all  men  living,  I  had  intended  to  have  sent  you 
an  entertaining  letter ;  and  by  all  the  plodding, 
stupid  powers,  that  in  nodding,  conceited  ma- 
jesty, preside  over  the  dull  routine  of  business 
— a  heavily  solemn  oath  this ! — I  am,  and  have 
been,  ever  since  I  came  to  Edinburgh,  as  unfit 
to  write  a  letter  of  humour,  as  to  write  a  com- 
mentary on  the  Revelation  of  St.  John  the  Di- 
vine, who  was  banished  to  the  Isle  of  Patmos, 
by  the  cruel  and  bloody  Domitian,  son  to  Ves- 
pasian and  brother  to  Titus,  both  emperors  of 
Rome,  and  who  was  himself  an  emperor,  and 
raised  the  second  or  third  persecution,  I  fcrget 
which,  against  the  Christians,  and  after  throw- 
ing the  said  Apostle  John,  brother  to  the  Apostle 
James,  commonly  called  James  the  Greater,  to 
distinguish  him  from  another  James,  who  was, 
on  some  account  or  other,  known  by  the  name 
of  James  the  Less — after  throwing  him  into  a 
cauldron  of  boiling  oil,  from  which  he  was  mi- 
raculously preserved,  he  banished  the  poor  9on 
of  Zebedee  to  a  desert  island  in  the  Archipelago, 
where  he  was  gifted  with  the  second  sight,  and 
saw  as  many  wild  beasts  as  I  have  seen  since  I 
came  to  Edinburgh ;  which,  a  circumstance  not 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


33ft 


fery  uncommon  in  story-telling,  brings  me  back 
to  where  I  set  out. 

To  make  you  some  amends  for  what,  before 
you  reach  this  paragraph,  you  will  have  suffered, 
I  enclose  you  two  poems  I  have  carded  and  spun 
since  I  past  Glenbuck. 

One  blank  in  the  address  to  Edinburgh  — 
'*  Fair  B ,"  is  heavenly  Miss  Burnet,  daugh- 
ter to  Lord  Monboddo,  at  whose  house  I  have 
had  the  honour  to  be  more  than  once.  There 
has  not  been  anything  nearly  like  her  in  all  the 
combinations  of  beauty,  grace,  and  goodness 
the  great  Creator  has  formed  since  Milton's  Eve 
»n  the  first  day  of  her  existence. 

My  direction  is — care  of  Andrew  Bruce,  mer- 
chant, Bridge-street.  R.  B. 


XXXIX. 

TO   THE  EARL   OF  EGLINTOUN. 

[Arcliihald  Montgomery,  eleventh  Earl  of  Eglinton, 
and  Colonel  Hugh  Montgomery,  of  Coilsfiekl,  who  suc- 
ceeded his  brother  in  his  titles  and  estates,  were  patrons, 
and  kind  ones,  of  Burns.] 

Edinburgh,  January  1787. 
My  Lobd, 
As  I  have  but  slender  pretensions  to  philoso- 
phy, I  cannot  rise  to  the  exalted  ideas  of  a  citi- 
zen of  the  world,  but  have  all  those  national 
prejudices,  which  I  believe  glow  peculiarly 
strong  in  the  breast  of  a  Scotchman.  There  is 
scarcely  anything  to  which  I  am  so  feelingly 
alive  as  the  honour  and  welfare  of  my  country  : 
and,  as  a  poet,  I  have  no  higher  enjoyment  than 
singing  her  sons  and  daughters.  Fate  had  cast 
my  station  in  the  veriest  shades  of  life ;  but 
never  did  a  heart  pant  more  ardently  than 
mine  to  be  distinguished ;  though,  till  very 
lately,  1  looked  in  vain  on  every  side  for  a  ray 
of  light.  It  is  easy  then  to  guess  how  much  I 
was  gratified  with  the  countenance  and  appro- 
bation of  one  of  my  country's  most  illustrious 
sons,  when  Mr.  Wauchope  called  on  me  yester- 
day on  the  part  of  your  lordship.  Your  muni- 
ficence, my  lord,  certainly  deserves  my  very 
grateful  acknowledgments ;  but  your  patro- 
nage is  a  bounty  peculiarly  suited  to  my  feel- 
ings. I  am  not  master  enough  of  the  etiquette 
of  life  to  know,  whether  there  be  not  some  im- 
propriety in  troubling  your  lordship  with  my 
thanks,  tut  my  heart  whispered  me  to  do  it. 


From  the  emotions  of  my  inmost  soul  I  do  it 
Selfish  ingratitude  I  hope  I  am  incapable  of, 
and  mercenary  servility,  I  trust,  I  shall  eve! 
have  so  much  honest  pride  as  to  detest. 

R.  B. 


XL. 
TO   MR.    GAVIN   HAMILTON. 

[This  letter  was  first  published  by  Robert  Chambers, 
who  considered  it  as  closing  the  inquiry,  "  was  Burns 
a  married  man  ?"  No  doubt  Burns  thouglit  himself  uiv 
married,  and  the  Rev.Mr.  Auld  was  of  the  same  opinion, 
since  he  offered  him  a  certificate  that  he  was  single  :  but 
no  opinion  of  priest  or  lawyer,  including  the  disclama- 
tion of  Jean  Armour,  and  thebelief  of  Burns,  could  have, 
in  my  opinion,  barred  the  claim  of  the  cliildren  to  full 
legitimacy,  according  to  the  law  of  Scotland.] 

Edinburgh,  Jan.  7,  1787. 
To  tell  the  truth  among  friends,  I  feel  a  mi 
serable  blank  in  my  heart,  with  the  want  of  her, 
and  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  meet  with  so  de- 
licious an  armful  again.     She  has  her  faults ; 
and  so  have  you  and  I ;  and  so  has  everybody 

Their  tricks  and  craft  hae  put  me  daft ; 

They've  ta'en  me  in  and  a'  that; 
But  clear  your  decks,  and  here's  the  sex, 
I  like  the  jads  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 
And  twice  as  muckle's  a'  that. 


I  have  met  with  a  very  pretty  girl,  a  Lothian 
farmer's  daughter,  whom  I  have  almost  per- 
suaded to  accompany  me  to  the  west  country, 
should  I  ever  return  to  settle  there.  By  the 
bye,  a  Lothian  farmer  is  about  an  Ayrshire 
squire  of  the  lower  kind ;  and  I  had  a  most  de- 
licious ride  from  Leith  to  her  house  yesternight, 
in  a  hackney-coach  with  her  brother  and  two 
sisters,  and  brother's  wife.  We  had  dined  alto- 
gether at  a  common  friend's  house  in  Leith,  and 
danced,  drank,  and  sang  till  late  enough.  The 
night  was  dark,  the  claret  had  Ircen  goo  J,  and 
I  thirsty.  *****  R.  B. 


XLI. 
TO  JOHN  BALLANTf NE,   ESa 

[This  letter  contains  the  first  intimation  that  the  poet 
desired  to  resume  the  labours  of  the  farmer.    The  oli 


536 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


saw  of  "  Willie  Giiw's  Skate,"  he  picked  up  from  his 
motlier,  who  hud  a  vast  collection  of  such  sayings.] 

Edinburgh,  Jan.  14,  1787. 
My  honoured  Fkiknd, 

It  gives  me  a  secret  comfort  to  observe  in 
myself  that  I  am  not  yet  so  far  gone  as  Willie 
Gaw's  Skate,  "  past  redemption ;"  for  I  have 
still  this  favourable  symptom  of  grace,  that 
when  my  conscience,  as  in  the  case  of  this 
letter,  tells  me  I  am  leaving  something  undone 
that  I  ought  to  do,  it  teases  me  eternally  till  I 
do  it. 

I  am  still  "  dark  as  was  Chaos'"  in  respect  to 
futurity.  My  generous  friend,  Mr.  Patrick 
Miller,  has  been  talking  with  me  about  a  lease 
of  some  farm  or  other  in  an  estate  called  Dal- 
swinton,  which  he  has  lately  bought,  near  Dum- 
fries. Some  life-rented  embittering  recollec- 
tions whisper  me  that  I  will  be  happier  anywhere 
than  in  my  old  neighbourhood,  but  Mr.  Miller 
is  no  judge  of  land;  and  though  I  dare  say  he 
means  to  favour  me,  yet  he  may  give  me,  in  his 
opinion,  an  advantageous  bargain  that  may  ruin 
me.  I  am  to  take  a  tour  by  Dumfries  as  I 
return,  and  have  promised  to  meet  Mr,  Miller 
on  his  lands  some  time  in  May. 

I  went  to  a  mason-lodge  yesternight,  where 
the  most  Worshipful  Grand  Master  Charters, 
and  all  the  Grand  Lodge  of  Scotland  visited. 
The  meeting  was  numerous  and  elegant ;  all  the 
different  lodges  about  town  were  present,  in  all 
their  pomp.  The  Grand  Master,  who  presided 
with  great  solemnity  and  honour  to  himself  as 
a  gentleman  and  mason,  among  other  general 
toasts,  gave  "Caledonia,  and  Caledonia's  Bard, 
Brother  Burns,"  which  rung  through  the  whole 
assembly  with  multiplied  honours  and  repeated 
acclamations.  As  I  had  no  idea  such  a  thing 
would  happen,  I  was  downright  thunderstruck, 
and,  trembling  in  every  nerve,  made  the  best 
return  in  my  power.  Just  as  I  had  finished, 
Bome  of  the  grand  officers  said,  so  loud  that  I 
could  hear,  with  a  most  comforting  accent, 
•*  Very  well  indeed !"  which  set  me  something 
to  rights  again. 

I  have  to-day  corrected  my  152d  page.     My 
best  good  wishes  to  Mr.  Aiken. 
I  am  ever. 
Dear  Sir, 
Your  much  indebted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 

1  See  Blair's  Grave.  This  was  a  favourite  quotation 
with  Burns. 


XLII. 
TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNE. 

[T  hnve  not  hesitated  to  insert  all  letters  which  show 
wlmt  Burns  was  musing  on  as  a  poet,  or  planning  as  a 
man.] 

January  — ,  1787. 
While  here  I  sit,  sad  and  solitary  by  the  side 
of  a  fire  in  a  little  country  inn,  and  drying  my 
wet  clothes,  in  pops  a  poor  fellow  of  sodger,  and 
tells  me  he  is  going  to  Ayr.  By  heavens  !  say  I 
to  myself,  with  a  tide  of  good  spirits  which  the 
magic  of  that  sound,  Auld  Toon  o'  Ayr,  conjured 
up,  I  will  sent  my  last  song  to  Mr.  Ballantyne. 
Here  it  is — 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair ; 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  !^ 


XLIII. 
TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[The    friendship  of  Mrs.  Dunlop    purified,  while  it 
strengthened  the  national  prejudices  of  Burns.] 

Edinburgh,  15fA  January,  1787. 
Madam, 
Yours  of  the  9th  current,  which  I  am  this 
moment  honoured  with,  is  a  deep  reproach  to 
me  for  ungrateful  neglect.  I  will  tell  you  the 
real  truth,  for  I  am  miserably  awkward  at  a  fib 
— I  wished  to  have  written  to  Dr.  Moore  before 
I  wrote  to  you  ;  but  though  every  day  since  I 
received  yours  of  December  30th,  the  idea,  the 
wish  to  write  to  him  has  constantly  pressed  on 
my  thoughts,  yet  I  could  not  for  my  soul  set 
about  it.  I  know  his  fame  and  character,  and 
I  am  one  of  "the  sons  of  little  men."  To  write 
him  a  mere  matter-of-fact  affair,  like  a  mer- 
chant's order,  would  be  disgracing  the  little 
character  I  have ;  and  to  write  the  author  of 
"  The  View  of  Society  and  Manners"  a  letter 
of  sentiment — I  declare  every  artery  runs  cold 
at  the  thought.  I  shall  try,  however,  to  write 
to  him  to-morrow  or  next  day.  His  kind  inter- 
position in  my  behalf  I  have  already  experienced, 
as  a  gentleman  waited  on  me  the  other  day,  on 
the  part  of  Lord  Eglintoun,  with  ten  guineas,  by 


2  SongCXXXI. 


OF   EGBERT   BURNS. 


337 


way  of  subscription  for  two  copies  of  my  next 
ftdition. 

The  word  you  object  to  in  the  mention  I  have 
made  of  my  glorious  countryman  and  your  im- 
mortal ancestor,  is  indeed  borrowed  from  Thom- 
son ;  but  it  does  not  strike  me  as  an  improper 
epithet.  I  distrusted  my  own  judgment  on  your 
finding  fault  with  it,  and  applied  for  the  opinion 
of  some  of  the  literati  here,  who  honour  me 
with  their  critical  strictures,  and  they  all  allow 
it  to  be  proper.  The  song  you  ask  I  cannot  re- 
collect, and  I  have  not  a  copy  of  it.  I  have  not 
composed  anything  on  the  great  Wallace,  except 
what  you  have  seen  in  print;  and  the  enclosed, 
which  I  will  print  in  this  edition.  You  will  see 
I  have  mentioned  some  others  of  the  name. 
When  I  composed  my  "Vision"  long  ago,  I  had 
attempted  a  description  of  Koyle,  of  which  the 
additional  stanzas  are  a  part,  as  it  originally 
stood.  My  heart  glows  with  a  wish  to  be  able 
to  do  justice  to  the  merits  of  the  "Saviour  of 
his  Country,"  which  sooner  or  later  I  shall  at 
least  attempt. 

You  are  afraid  I  shall  grow  intoxicated  with 
my  prosperity  as  a  poet ;  alas !  Madam,  I  know 
myself  and  the  world  too  well.  I  do  not  mean 
any  airs  of  aflFected  modesty ;  I  am  willing  to 
believe  that  my  abilities  deserve  some  notice ; 
but  in  a  most  enlightened,  informed  age  and 
nation,  when  poetry  is  and  has  been  the  study 
of  men  of  the  first  natural  genius,  aided  with  all 
the  powers  of  polite  learning,  polite  books,  and 
polite  company — to  be  dragged  forth  to  the  full 
glare  of  learned  and  polite  observation,  with  all 
my  imperfections  of  awkward  rusticity  and 
crude  unpolished  ideas  on  my  head — I  assure 
you.  Madam,  I  do  not  dissemble  when  I  tell 
you  I  tremble  for  the  consequences.  The 
novelty  of  a  poet  in  my  obscure  situation,  with- 
out any  of  those  advantages  which  are  reckoned 
necessary  for  that  character,  at  least  at  this 
time  of  day,  has  raised  a  partial  tide  of  public 
notice  which  has  borne  me  to  a  height,  where  I 
am  absolutely,  feelingly  certain,  my  abilities 
are  inadequate  to  support  me  ;  and  too  surely 
do  I  see  that  time  when  the  same  tide  will 
leave  me,  and  recede,  perhaps,  as  far  below  the 
mark  of  truth.  I  do  not  say  this  in  the  ridi- 
culous aflFectation  of  self-abasement  and  mo- 
desty. I  have  studied  myself,  and  know  what 
ground  I  occupy;  and,  however  a  friend  or 'the 
world  may  diifer  from  me  in  that  particular,  I 
stand  for  my  own  opinion,  in  silent  resolve,  with 


all  the  tenaciousness  of  property.  I  mention 
this  to  you  once  for  all  to  disburthen  my  mind, 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  or  say  more  about 
it.— But, 

"  When  proud  fortune's  ebbing  tide  recedes," 
you  will  bear  me  witness,  that  when  my  bubble 
of  fame  was  at  the  highest,  I  stood  unintoxi- 
cated  with  the  inebriating  cup  in  my  h;ind, 
looking  forward  with  rueful  resolve  to  the 
hastening  time,  when  the  blow  of  Calumny 
should  dash  it  to  the  ground  with  all  the  eager- 
ness of  vengeful  triumph. 

Your  patronizing  me  and  interesting  yourself 
in  my  fame  and  character  as  a  poet,  I  rejoice 
in ;  it  exalts  me  in  my  own  idea  ;  and  whether 
you  can  or  cannot  aid  me  in  my  subscription  is 
a  trifle.  Has  a  paltry  subscription-bill  any 
charms  to  the  heart  of  a  bard,  compared  with 
the  patronage  of  the  descendant  of  the  immortal 
Wallace  ?  R.  B. 


XLIV. 


TO  DR.   MOORE. 


[Dr.  Moore,  the  accomplished  author  of  Zeluco  and 
father  of  Sir  John  Moore,  interested  himself  in  the  fame 
and  fortune  of  Burns,  as  soon  as  the  publication  of  his 
Poems  made  his  name  known  to  the  world.] 


SiK, 


Edinburgh,  Jan.  1787. 


Mrs.  Dunlop  has  been  so  kind  as  to  send  me 
extracts  of  letters  she  has  had  from  you,  where 
you  do  the  rustic  bard  the  honour  of  noticing 
him  and  his  works.  Those  who  have  felt  the 
anxieties  and  solicitudes  of  authorship,  can  only 
know  what  pleasure  it  gives  to  be  noticed  in 
such  a  manner,  by  judges  of  the  first  character. 
Your  criticisms.  Sir,  I  receive  with  reverence : 
only  I  am  sorry  they  mostly  came  too  late :  a 
peccant  passage  or  two  that  I  would  certainly 
have  altered,  were  gone  to  the  press. 

The  hope  to  be  admired  for  ages,  is,  in  by  far 
the  greater  part  of  those  even  who  are  autk  ars 
of  repute,  an  unsubstantial  dream.  For  my 
part,  my  first  ambition  was,  and  still  my  strong- 
est wish  is,  to  please  my  compeers,  the  rustic 
inmates  of  the  hamlet,  while  ever-changing  lan- 
guage and  manners  shall  allow  me  to  be  relished 
and  understood.  I  am  very  willing  to  admit 
that  I  have  some  poetical  abilities  ;  and  as  few, 
if  any,  writers,  either  moral  or  poetical,  are  in- 
timately acquainted  with  the  classes  of  mankind 


338 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


amorg  whom  I  have  chiefly  mingled,  I  may  have 
seen  men  and  manners  in  a  different  phasis  from 
what  is  common,  which  may  assist  originality 
of  thought.  Still  I  know  very  well  the  novelty 
of  my  character  has  by  far  the  greatest  share 
in  the  learned  and  polite  notice  I  have  lately 
had ;  and  in  a  language  where  Pope  and 
Churchill  have  raised  the  laugh,  and  Shenstone 
and  Gray  drawn  the  tear ;  where  Thomson  and 
Beattie  have  painted  the  landscape,  and  Lyttel- 
ton  and  Collins  described  the  heart,  I  am  not 
vain  enough  to  hope  for  distinguished  poetic 
fame.  R.  B. 


XLV. 
TO   THE   REV.    G.   LAURIE, 

NEWMILLS,   NEAR   KILMARNOCK. 

[It  nas  Been  said  in  the  Life  of  Burns,  that  for  some  time 
after  he  went  to  Edinburgh,  he  did  not  visit  Dr.  Black- 
•ock,  whose  high  opinion  of  his  genius  induced  him  to 
try  his  fortune  in  that  city :  it  will  be  seen  by  this  letter 
that  he  had  neglected  also,  for  a  time,  at  least,  to  write 
to  Dr.  Ijaurie,  who  introduced  him  to  the  Doctor.] 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  5th,  1787. 
Reverend  and  dear  Sir, 

When  I  look  at  the  date  of  your  kind  letter, 
my  heart  reproaches  me  severely  with  ingrati- 
tude in  neglecting  so  long  to  answer  it.  I  will 
not  trouble  you  with  any  account,  by  way  of 
apology,  of  my  hurried  life  and  distracted  at- 
tention :  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  my 
delay  by  no  means  proceeded  from  want  of  re- 
spect. I  feel,  and  ever  shall  feel  for  you  the 
mingled  sentiments  of  esteem  for  a  friend  and 
reverence  for  a  father. 

I  thank  you,  Sir,  with  all  my  soul  for  your 
friendly  hints,  though  I  do  not  need  them  so 
much  as  my  friends  are  apt  to  imagine.  You 
are  dazzled  with  newspaper  accounts  and  distant 
reports  ;  but,  in  reality,  I  have  no  great  tempta- 
tion to  be  intoxicated  with  the  cup  of  prosperity. 
Novelty  may  attrac*  the  attention  of  mankind 
awhile  ;  to  it  I  owe  my  present  6clat ;  but  I  see 
the  time  not  far  distant  when  the  popular  tide 
which  has  borne  me  to  a  height  of  which  I  am, 
perhaps,  unworthy,  shall  recede  with  silent  ce- 
lerity, and  leave  me  a  barren  waste  of  sand,  to 
descend  at  my  leisure  to  my  former  station.  I 
do  not  say  this  in  the  aifectation  of  modesty ; 
I  see  tlie  consequence  is  unavoidable,  and  am 
prepared  for  it.     I  had  been  at  a  good  deal 


cf  pains  to  form  a  just,  impartial  estimate  of 
my  intellectual  powers  before  I  came  here ;  I 
have  not  added,  since  I  came  to  Edinburgh, 
anything  to  the  account ;  and  I  trust  I  shall 
take  every  atom  of  it  back  to  my  shades,  the 
coverts  of  my  unnoticed,  early  years. 

In  Dr.  Blacklock,  whom  I  see  very  often,  I 
have  found  what  I  would  have  expected  in  our 
friend,  a  clear  head  and  an  excellent  heart. 

By  far  the  most  agreeable  hours  I  spend  in 
Edinburgh  must  be  placed  to  the  account  of 
Miss  Laurie  and  her  piano-forte.  I  cannot  help 
repeating  to  you  and  Mrs.  Laurie  a  compliment 
that  Mr.  Mackenzie,  the  celebrated  "  Man  of 
Feeling,"  paid  to  Miss  Laurie,  the  other  night 
at  the  concert.  I  had  come  in  at  the  interlude, 
and  sat  down  by  him  till  I  saw  Miss  Laurie  in 
a  seat  not  very  distant,  and  went  up  to  pay  my 
respects  to  her.  On  my  return  to  Mr.  Macken- 
zie he  asked  me  who  she  was  ;  I  told  him  'twas 
the  daughter  of  a  reverend  friend  of  mine  in  the 
west  country.  He  returned,  there  was  some- 
thing very  striking,  to  his  idea,  in  her  appear- 
ance. On  my  desiring  to  know  what  it  was,  he 
was  pleased  to  say,  "  She  has  a  great  deal  of  the 
elegance  of  a  well-bred  lady  about  her,  with  all 
the  sweet  simplicity  of  a  country  girl." 

My  compliments  to  all  the  happy  inmates  of 
St.  Margaret's.  R.  B. 


XLVI. 

TO    DR.    MOORE. 

[In  the  answer  to  this  letter.  Dr.  Moore  says  that  the 
poet  was  a  great  favourite  in  his  family,  and  that  his 
youngest  son,  at  Winchester  school,  had  translated  part 
of  "  Halloween"  into  Latin  verse,  for  the  benefit  of 
h.s  coraraaes.J 


Sir, 


Edinburgh,  15th  February,  1787. 


,1 


Pardon  my  seeming  neglect  in  delaying  so 
long  to  acknowledge  the  honour  you  have  done 
me,  in  your  kind  notice  of  me,  January  23d. 
Not  many  months  ago  I  knew  no  other  employ- 
ment than  following  the  plough,  nor  could  boast 
anything  higher  than  a  distant  acquaintance 
with  a  country  clergyman.  Mere  greatness 
never  embarrasses  me ;  I  have  nothing  to  ask 
from  the  great,  and  I  do  not  fear  their  judg- 
ment :  but  genius,  polished  by  learning,  and  at 
its  proper  point  of  elevation  in  the  eye  of  the 
world,  this  of  late  I  frequently  meet  with,  and 


OF   liOBEKT   BUllNS. 


33! 


tremble  at  its  approach.  I  scorn  the  aflFectation 
of  seeming  modesty  to  cover  self-conceit.  That 
I  have  some  merit  I  do  not  deny ;  but  I  see 
with  frequent  wringings  of  heart,  that  the  no- 
velty of  my  character,  and  the  honest  national 
prejudice  of  my  countrymen,  have  borne  me  to 
a  height  altogether  untenable  to  my  abilities. 

For  the  honour  Miss  Williams  has  done  me, 
f ''case.  Sir,  return  her  in  my  name  my  most 
grateful  thanks.  I  have  more  than  once  thought 
of  paying  her  in  kind,  but  have  hitherto  quitted 
the  idea  in  hopeless  despondency.  I  had  never 
before  heard  of  her ;  but  the  other  day  I  got 
her  poems,  which  for  several  reasons,  some  be- 
longing to  the  head,  and  others  the  offspring  of 
the  heart,  give  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  I 
have  little  pretensions  to  critic  lore  ;  there  are, 
I  think,  two  characteristic  features  in  her  poetry 
— the  unfettered  wild  flight  of  native  genius, 
and  the  querulous  sombre  tenderness  of  "  time- 
settled  sorrow." 

I  only  know  what  pleases  me,  often  without 
being  able  to  tell  why.  R.  B. 


XLvn. 

TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNE,   ESQ. 

fTlie  picture  from  which  Beugo  engraved  the  portrait 
Rlluded  to  in  this  letter,  was  painted  by  the  now  vene- 
rable Alexander  Nasmyth — the  eldest  of  living  British 
artists  : — it  is,  with  the  exception  of  a  profile  by  Miers, 
the  only  portrait  for  wliich  we  are  quite  sure  that  the 
poet  sat.] 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  2ith,  1787. 
My  honoured  Friend, 
I  WILL  soon  be  with  you  now,  in  guid  black 
prent ; — in  a  week  or  ten  days  at  farthest.  I 
am  obliged,  against  my  own  wish,  to  print  sub- 
scribers' names;  so  if  any  of  my  Ayr  friends 
have  subscription  bills,  they  must  be  sent  in  to 
Creech  directly.  I  am  getting  my  phiz  done  by 
an  eminent  engraver,  and  if  it  can  be  ready  in 
time,  I  will  appear  in  my  book,  looking  like  all 
ither  fools  to  my  title-page.  R.  B. 


XLVin. 

TO   THE  EARL  OF   GLENCAIRN. 

[The  Earl  of  Glencaim  seems  to  have  refused,  from 
aaoti'<9B  of  delicacy,  the  request  of  the  poet :  the  verses, 


long  lost,  were  at  last  found,  and  are  now,  through  the 
kindness  of  my  friend,  Major  James  Glencairn  Burns, 
printed  with  the  rest  of  his  eminent  father's  works.] 

Edinburgh,  1787 
My  Lord, 

I  WANTED  to  purchase  a  profile  of  your  lord- 
ship, which  I  was  told  was  to  be  got  in  town  ; 
but  I  am  truly  sorry  to  see  that  a  blundering 
painter  has  spoiled  a  "human  face  divine." 
The  enclosed  stanzas  I  intended  to  have  written 
below  a  picture  or  profile  of  your  lordship, 
could  I  have  been  so  happy  as  to  procure  one 
with  anything  of  a  likeness. 

As  I  will  soon  return  to  my  shades,  I  wanted 
to  have  something  like  a  material  object  for  my 
gratitude  ;  I  wanted  to  have  it  in  my  power  to 
say  to  a  friend,  there  is  my  noble  patron,  my 
generous  benefactor.  Allow  me,  my  lord,  to 
publish  these  verses,  I  conjure  your  lordship, 
by  the  honest  throe  of  gratitude,  by  the  gene- 
rous wish  of  benevolence,  by  all  the  powers  and 
feelings  which  compose  the  magnanimous  mind, 
do  not  deny  me  this  petition.  I  owe  much  to 
your  lordship :  and,  what  has  not  in  some  other 
instances  always  been  the  case  with  me,  the 
weight  of  the  obligation  is  a  pleasing  load.  I 
trust  I  have  a  heart  as  independent  as  your 
lordship's,  than  which  I  can  say  nothing  more ; 
and  I  would  not  be  beholden  to  favours  that 
would  crucify  my  feelings.  Your  dignified  cha- 
racter in  life,  and  manner  of  supporting  that 
character,  are  flattering  to  my  pride ;  and  I 
would  be  jealous  of  the  purity  of  my  grateful 
attachment,  where  I  was  under  the  patronage 
of  one  of  the  much  favoured  sons  of  fortune. 

Almost  every  poet  has  celebrated  his  patrons, 
particularly  when  they  were  names  dear  to  fam« 
and  illustrious  in  their  country ;  allow  me,  then, 
my  lord,  if  you  think  the  verses  have  intrinsic 
merit,  to  tell  the  world  how  much  I  have  the 
honour  to  be, 

Your  lordship's  highly  indebted, 

And  ever  grateful  humble  servant, 
R.  B. 


XLIX. 
TO   THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

[The  Earl  of  Buchan,  a  man  of  talent,  but  more  than 
tolerably  vain,  advised  Burns  to  visit  the  battle-fields 
and  scenes  celebrated  in  song  on  the  Scottish  border, 
with  the  hope,  perhaps,  that  he  would  drop  a  few  ot'  his 


uo 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


happy  verses  in  Dryburgh  Abbey,  the  residence  of  his 
lordship.] 

My  Lord, 
The  honour  your  lordship  has  done  me,  by 
your  notice    and  advice  in  yours  of  the  1st  in- 
stant, I  shall  ever  gratefully  remember  : — 
"  Praise  from  thy  lips,  'tis  mine  with  joy  to  boast, 
They  best  can  give  it  who  deserve  It  most."! 

Your  lordship  touches  the  darling  chord  of  my 
heart  when  you  advise  me  to  fire  my  muse  at 
Scottish  story  and  Scotch  scenes.  I  wish  for 
nothing  more  than  to  make  a  leisurely  pilgrim- 
age through  my  native  country ;  to  sit  and  muse 
on  those  once  hard-contended  fields,  where  Cale-* 
donia,  rejoicing,  saw  her  bloody  lion  borne 
through  broken  ranks  to  victory  and  fame ;  and, 
catching  the  inspiration,  to  pour  the  deathless 
names  in  song.  But,  my  lord,  in  the  midst  of 
these  enthusiastic  reveries,  a  long-visaged,  dry, 
moral-looking  phantom  strides  across  my 
imagination,  and  pronounces  these  emphatic 
words : — 

"  I,  Wisdom,  dwell  with  Prudence.  Friend, 
I  do  not  come  to  open  the  ill-closed  wounds  of 
your  follies  and  misfortunes,  merely  to  give  you 
pain  :  I  wish  through  these  wounds  to  imprint  a 
lasting  lesson  on  your  heart.  I  will  not  mention 
how  many  of  my  salutary  advices  you  have  des- 
pised :  I  have  given  you  line  upon  line  and  pre- 
cept upon  precept ;  and  while  I  was  chalking 
out  to  you  the  straight  way  to  wealth  and  cha- 
racter, with  audacious  effrontery  you  have  zig- 
zagged across  the  path,  contemning  me  to  my 
face-:  you  know  the  consequences.  It  is  not 
yet  three  months  since  home  was  so  hot  for  you 
that  you  were  on  the  wing  for  the  western  shore 
of  the  Atlantic,  not  to  make  a  fortune,  but  to 
hide  your  misfortune. 

"  Now  that  your  dear-loved  Scotia  puts  it  in 
your  power  to  return  to  the  situation  of  your 
forefathers,  will  you  follow  these  will-o'-wisp 
meteors  of  fancy  and  whim,  till  they  bring  you 
once  more  to  the  brink  of  ruin?  I  grant  that 
the  utmost  ground  you  can  occupy  is  but  half  a 
Btep  from  the  veriest  poverty;  but  still  it  is  half 
a  step  from  it.  If  all  that  I  can  urge  be  ineifec- 
tual,  let  her  who  seldom  qalls  to  you  in  vain, 
let  the  call  of  pride  prevail  with  you.  You  know 
how  you  feel  at  the  iron  gripe  of  ruthless  op- 
pression :  you  know  how  you  bear  the  galling 
ineer  of  contumelious  greatness.  I  hold  you 
out  the  conveniences,  the  comforts  of  life,  in- 

1  Imitated  from  Pope's  Eloiaa  to  Abelard. 


dependence,  and  character,  on  the  one  hand ;  I 
tender  you  civility,  dependence,  and  wretched- 
ness, on  the  other.  I  will  not  insult  your  un- 
derstanding by  bidding  you  make  a  choice." 

This,  my  lord,  is  unanswerable.  I  must  re- 
turn to  my  humble  station,  and  woo  my  rustic 
muse  in  my  wonted  way  at  the  plough-tail. 
Still,  my  lord,  while  the  drops  of  life  warm  my 
heart,  gratitude  to  that  dear-loved  country  in 
which  I  boast  my  birth,  and  gratitude  to  those 
her  distinguished  sons  who  have  honoured  me 
so  much  with  their  patronage  and  approbation, 
shall,  while  stealing  through  my  humble  shades, 
ever  distend  my  bosom,  and  at  times,  as  now, 
draw  forth  the  swelling  tear.  R.  B. 


L. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  CANDLISH. 

[James  Candlish,  a  student  of  medicine,  was  well  ac 
quainted  with  tlie  poetry  of  Lowe,  author  of  that  sublime 
lyric,  "  Mary's  Dream,"  and  at  the  request  of  Burns  seni 
Lowe's  classic  song  of  "  Pompey's  Ghost,"  to  the  Mu- 
sical Museum.] 

Edinburgh,  March  21,  1787. 
My  ever  dear  old  Acquaintance, 

I  was  equally  surprised  and  pleased  at  your 
letter,  though  I  dare  say  you  will  think  by  my 
delaying  so  long  to  write  to  you  that  I  am  so 
drowned  in  the  intoxication  of  good  fortune  as 
to  be  indiflFerent  to  old,  and  once  dear  con- 
nexions. The  truth  is,  I  was  determined. to 
write  a  good  letter,  full  of  argument,  amplifi- 
cation, erudition,  and,  as  Bayes  says,  all  that. 
I  thought  of  it,  and  thought  of  it,  and,  by  my 
soul,  I  could  not ;  and,  lest  you  should  mistake 
the  cause  of  my  silence,  I  just  sit  down  to  tell 
you  so.  Don't  give  yourself  credit,  though,  that 
the  strength  of  your  logic  scares  me  :  the  truth 
is,  I  never  mean  to  meet  you  on  that  ground  at 
all.  You  have  shown  me  one  thing  which  was 
to  be  demonstrated :  that  strong  pride  of  rea- 
soning, with  a  little  afi'ectation  of  singularity, 
may  mislead  the  best  of  hearts.  I  likewise, 
since  you  and  I  were  first  acquainted,  in  the 
pride  of  despising  old  woman's  stories,  ventured 
in  "  the  daring  path  Spinosa  trod  ;"  but  experi- 
ence of  the  weakness,  not  the  strength  of  human 
powers,  made  me  glad  to  grasp  at  revealed 
religion. 

I   am   still,    in   the   Apostle   Paul's   phrase, 
"  The  old  man  with  his  deeds,"  as  when  w€ 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


34: 


were  sporting  about  the  "  Lady  Thorn."  I  shall 
be  four  weeks  here  yet  at  least ;  and  so  I  shall 
expect  to  hear  from  you ;  welcome  sense,  wel- 
come nonsense. 

I  am,  with  the  warmest  sincerity, 
R.  B. 


LI. 
TO  . 

[The  name  of  \he  friend  to  whom  this  letter  was  ad- 
ressed  is  still  unknown,  though  known  to  Dr.  Currie. 
The  Esculapian  Club  of  Edinburgh  have,  since  the 
death  of  Burns,  added  some  iron-work,  with  an  inscrip- 
tion m  honour  of  the  Ayrshire  poet,  to  the  original  liead- 
■tone.    The  cost  to  the  poet  was  £5  10s.] 

Edinburgh,  March,  1787. 
My  deae  Sie, 

You  may  think,  and  too  justly,  that  I  am  a 
selfish,  ungrateful  fellow,  having  received  so 
many  repeated  instances  of  kindness  from  you, 
and  yet  never  putting  pen  to  paper  to  say  thank 
you ;  but  if  you  knew  what  a  devil  of  a  life  my 
conscience  has  led  me  on  that  account,  your 
good  heart  would  think  yourself  too  much 
avenged.  By  the  bye,  there  is  nothing  in  the 
whole  frame  of  man  which  seems  to  be  so  unac- 
countable as  that  thing  called  conscience.  Had 
the  troublesome  yelping  cur  powers  efficient  to 
prevent  a  mischief,  he  might  be  of  use ;  but  at 
the  beginning  of  the  business,  his  feeble  efi^orts 
are  to  the  workings  of  passion  as  the  infant 
frosts  of  an  autumnal  morning  to  the  unclouded 
fervour  of  the  rising  sun :  and  no  sooner  are 
the  tumultuous  doings  of  the  wicked  deed  over, 
than,  amidst  the  bitter  native  consequences  of 
folly,  in  the  very  vortex  of  our  horrors,  up 
starts  conscience,  and  harrows  us  with  the  feel- 
ings of  the  damned. 

I  have  enclosed  you,  by  way  of  expiation, 
Bome  verse  and  prose,  that,  if  they  merit  a  place 
m  your  truly  entertaining  miscellany,  you  are 
welcome  to.  The  prose  extract  is  literally  as 
yiv.  Sprott  sent  it  me. 

The  inscription  on  the  stoae  is  as  follows : — 

"HERE  LIES  ROBERT  FERGUSSON,  POET. 

Born,  September  5th,  1751— Died,  16th  October,  1774. 
«'  No  Bculptiir'd  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
'  No  storied  urn  or  animated  bust;' 
This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia's  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  poet-i  lust." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  stone  is  as  follows : 


**  By  special  grant  of  the  managers  to  Robert  Bums, 
who  erected  this  stone,  this  burial  place  is  to  remain  foi 
ever  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Robert  Fergusson." 


Sessio?i-house,  within  the  Kirk  of  Canongate,  tht 
twenty-second  day  of  February,  one  thomand 
seven  hundred  eighty-seven  years. 

Sederunt  of  the  Managers  of  the  Kirk  and  Rirk- 
Yard  funds  of  Canongate. 

Which  day,  the  treasurer  to  the  said  funds 
produced  a  letter  from  Mr.  Robert  Burns,  of 
date  the  6th  current,  which  was  read  and  ap- 
pointed to  be  engrossed  in  their  sederunt  book, 
and  of  which  letter  the  tenor  follows : — 

*'  To  the  honourable  baillies  of  Canongate, 
Edinburgh. — Gentlemen,  I  am  sorry  to  be  told 
that  the  remains  of  Robert  Fergusson,  the  so 
justly  celebrated  poet,  a. man  whose  talents  for 
ages  to  come  will  do  honour  to  our  Caledonian 
name,  lie  in  your  church-yard  among  the  ignoble 
dead,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 

"Some  memorial  to  direct  the  steps  of  the 
lovers  of  Scottish  song,  when  they  wish  to  shed 
a  tear  over  the  *  narrow  house'  of  the  bard  who 
is  no  more,  is  surely  a  tribute  due  to  Fergus- 
son's  memory :  a  tribute  I  wish  to  have  the 
honour  of  paying. 

"I  petition  you  then,  gentlemen,  to  permit 
me  to  lay  a  simple  stone  over  his  revered  ashes, 
to  remain  an  unalienable  property  to  his  death- 
less fame.  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  gentlemen, 
your  very  humble  servant  {sic  subscribitur), 

ROBEET   BUENS." 

Thereafter  the  said  managers,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  laudable  and  disinterested  motion 
of  Mr.  Burns,  and  the  propriety  of  his  request, 
did,  and  hereby  do,  unanimously,  grant  power 
and  liberty  to  the  said  Robert  Burns  to  erect  a 
headstone  at  the  grave  of  the  said  Robert  Fer- 
gusson, and  to  keep  up  and  preserve  the  same 
to  his  memory  in  all  time  coming.  Extracted 
forth  of  the  records  of  the  manageis,  by 

William  Speott    Clerk, 


LII. 
TO   MRS.   DUNLOP- 

[The  poet  alludes  in  this  letter  to  tM  profits  of  in« 
Edinburxh  edition  of  his  Poems:  the  exa<>t  sum  is  no 


S42 


(GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


tvliere  staled,  but  it  could  not  have  been  less  than  seven 
Hundred  pounds.] 

Edinburgh,  March  22c/,  1787. 
Madam, 

I  BEAD  your  letter  with  watery  eyes.  A  little, 
very  little  while  ago,  I  had  scarce  a  friend  but 
the  stubborn  pride  of  my  own  bosom:  now  I 
am  distinguished,  patronized,  befriended  by  you. 
Your  friendly  advices,  I  will  not  give  them  the 
cold  name  at  criticisms,  I  receive  with  reve- 
rence. I  have  made  some  small  alterations  in 
what  I  before  had  printed.  I  have  the  advice 
of  some  very  judicious  friends  among  the  literati 
here,  but  with  them  I  sometimes  find  it  neces- 
sary to  claim  the  privilege  of  thinking  for  my- 
self. The  noble  Earl  of  Glencairn,  to  whom  I 
owe  more  than  to  any  man,  does  me  the  honour 
of  giving  me  his  strictures :  his  hints,  with  re- 
spect to  impropriety  or  indelicacy,  I  follow  im- 
plicitly. 

You  kindly  interest  yourself  in  my  future 
views  and  prospects  ;  there  I  can  give  you  no 
light.     It  is  all 

"  Dark  as  was  Chaos  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll'd  together,  or  had  tried  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound."! 

The  appellation  of  a  Scottish  bard,  is  by  far 
my  highest  pride ;  to  continue  to  deserve  it  is 
my  most  exalted  ambition.  Scottish  scenes 
and  Scottish  story  are  the  themes  I  could  wish 
to  sing.  I  have  no  dearer  aim  than  to  have  it 
in  my  power,  unplagued  with  the  routine  of 
business,  for  which  heaven  knows  I  am  unfit 
enough,  to  make  leisurely  pilgrimages  through 
Caledonia ;  to  sit  on  the  fields  of  her  battles ; 
to  wander  on  the  romantic  banks  of  her  rivers ; 
and  to  muse  by  the  stately  towers  or  vene- 
rable ruins,  once  the  honoured  abodes  of  her 
heroes. 

But  these  are  all  Utopian  thoughts :  I  have 
dallied  long  enough  with  life ;  'tis  time  to  be  in 
earnest.  I  have  a  fond,  an  aged  mother  to  care 
for  r  and  some  other  bosom  ties  perhaps  equally 
cender.  Where  the  individual  only  suff"ers  by 
the  consequences  of  his  own  thoughtlessness, 
indolence,  or  folly,  he  may  be  excusable ;  nay, 
shining  abilities,  and  some  of  the  nobler  virtues, 
may  half  sanctify  a  heedless  character ;  but 
where  God  and  nature  have  intrusted  the  wel- 
fare of  others  to  his  care  ;  where  the  trust  is 
sacred,  and  the  ties  are  dear,  that  man  must 
be  far  gone  in  selfishness,  or  strangely  lost  to 

1  Blair's  Grave. 


reflection,  whom  these  connexions  will  not  rouse 
to  exertion. 

I  guess  that  I  shall  clear  between  two  and 
three  hundred  pounds  by  my  authorship  ;  with 
that  sum  I  intend,  so  far  as  I  may  be  said  to 
have  any  intention,  to  return  to  my  old  ac- 
quaintance, the  plough,  and,  if  I  can  meet  with 
a  lease  by  which  I  can  live,  to  commence  farmer. 
I  do  not  intend  to  give  up  poetry ;  being  bred 
to  labour,  secures  me  independence,  and  the 
muses  are  my  chief,  sometimes  have  been  my 
only  enjoyment.  If  my  practice  second  my 
resolution,  I  shall  have  principally  at  heart  the 
serious  business  of  life;  but  while  following  my 
plough,  or  building  up  my  shocks,  I  shall  cast  a 
leisure  glance  to  that  dear,  that  only  feature  of 
my  character,  which  gave  me  the  notice  of  my 
country,  and  the  patronage  of  a  Wallace. 

Thus,  honoured  Madam,  I  have  given  you  the 
bard,  his  situation,  and  his  views,  native  as 
they  are  in  his  own  bosom.  R.  B. 


LIII. 
TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[This  seems  to  be  a  letter  acknowledging  the  paymen  t 
of  Mrs.  Dunlop's  subscription  for  his  poems.] 

Edinburgh,  16th  April,  1787. 
Madam, 
There  is  an  afi'ectation  of  gratitude  which  I 
dislike.  The  periods  of  Johnson  and  the  pause 
of  Sterne,  may  hide  a  selfish  heart.  For  my 
part,  Madam,  I  trust  I  have  too  much  pride  for 
servility,  and  too  little  prudence  for  selfishness. 
I  have  this  moment  broken  open  your  letter, 
but 

"  Rude  am  I  in  speech. 
And  therefore  little  can  I  grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself—"  2 

SO  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  any  fine  speeches 
and  hunted  figures.  I  shall  just  lay  my  hand 
on  my  heart  and  say,  I  hope  I  shall  ever  have 
the  truest,  the  warmest  sense  of  your  goodness. 
I  come  abroad  in  print,  for  certain  on  Wed- 
nesday. Your  orders  I  shall  punctually  attend 
to ;  only,  by  the  way,  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
was  paid  before  for  Dr.  Moore's  and  INIiss  Wil- 
liams's copies,  through  the  medium  of  Commis- 
sioner Cochrane  in  this  place,  but  that  we  can 
settle  when  I  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  you. 

2  From  Othello. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS 


843 


Dr.  Smith '  was  just  gone  to  London  the  mor- 
ning before  I  received  your  letter  to  him. 

R.  B. 


LIV. 


TO   MR.   SIBBALD, 

BOOKSELLER  IN  EDIKBURGH. 

[This  letter  first  appeared  in  that  very  valuable  work, 
t^'choll's  Illustrations  of  Literature.] 


Lawn  Market. 


Sir, 


So  little  am  I  acquainted  with  the  words  and 
manners  of  the  more  public  and  polished  walks 
of  life,  that  I  often  feel  myself  much  embar- 
rassed how  to  express  the  feelings  of  my  heart, 
particularly  gratitude : — 

"  Rude  am  I  in  my  speech, 
And  little  therefore  shall  I  grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself—" 

The  warmth  with  which  you  have  befriended 
an  obscure  man  and  a  young  author  in  the  last 
three  magazines — I  can  only  say,  Sir,  I  feel  the 
weight  of  the  obligation,  I  wish  I  could  express 
my  sense  of  it.  In  the  mean  time  accept  of  the 
conscious  acknowledgment  from, 
Sir, 
Your  obliged  servant, 

R.  B. 


LV. 
TO  DR.    MOORE. 

iThe  book  to  which  the  poet  alludes,  was  the  well- 
known  View  of  Society  by  Dr.  Moore,  a  work  of  spirit 
and  observation.] 

Edinburgh,  2Zd  April,  1787. 

I  RECEIVED  the  books,  and  sent  the  one  you 
mentioned  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  I  am  ill  skilled  in 
beating  the  c  jyerts  of  imagination  for  metaphors 
of  gratitude.  I  ti!2ank  you.  Sir,  for  the  honour 
you  have  done  me ;  and  to  my  latest  hour  will 
warmly  remember  it.  To  be  highly  pleased  with 
your  book  is  what  I  have  in  common  with  the 
world ;  but  to  regard  these  volumes  as  a  mark 
of  the  author's  friendly  esteem,  is  a  still  more 
supreme  gratification. 

I  leave  Edinburgh  in  the  course  of  ten  days 
or  a  fortnight,  and  after  a  few  pilgrimages  over 
some  of  the  classic  ground  of  Caledonia,  Cow- 

'  Adam  Smith. 


den  Knowes,  Banks  of  Yarrow,  Tweed,  &c., 
I  shall  return  to  my  rural  shades,  in  all  likeli- 
hood never  more  to  quit  them.  I  have  formed 
many  intimacies  and  friendships  here,  but  I  am 
afraid  they  are*  all  of  too  tender  a  construction 
to  bear  carriage  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles.  To 
the  rich,  the  great,  the  fashionable,  the  polite,  I 
have  no  equivalent  to  oflfer ;  and  I  am  afraid  my 
meteor  appearance  will  by  no  means  entitle  me 
to  a  settled  correspondence  with  any  of  you,  who 
are  the  permanent  lights  of  genius  and  literature. 
My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Miss 
Williams.  If  once  this  tangent  flight  of  mine 
were  over,  and  I  were  returned  to  my  wonted 
leisurely  motion  in  my  old  circle,  I  may  pro- 
bably endeavour  to  return  her  poetic  compli- 
ment in  kind.  R.  B. 


LVI. 
TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[This  letter  was  in  answer  to  one  of  criticism  and  re- 
monstrance, from  Mrs.  Dunlop,  respecting  "  The  Dream," 
which  she  had  begged  the  poet  to  omit,  lest  it  should 
harm  his  fortunes  with  the  world.] 

Edinburgh,  ZOth  April,  1787. 
Your  criticisms.  Madam,  I  under- 


stand very  well,  and  could  have  wished  to  have 
pleased  you  better.  You  are  right  in  your 
guess  that  I  am  not  very  amenable  to  counsel. 
Poets,  much  my  superiors,  have  so  flattered 
those  who  possessed  the  adventitious  qualities 
of  wealth  and  power,  that  I  am  determined  to 
flatter  no  created  being,  either  in  prose  or 
verse. 

I  set  as  little  by  princes,  lords,  clergy,  critics, 
&c.,  as  all  these  respective  gentry  do  by  my  bard- 
ship.  I  know  what  I  may  expect  from  the 
world,  by  and  by — illiberal  abuse,  and  perhaps 
contemptuous  neglect. 

I  am  happy.  Madam,  that  some  of  my  3wn 
favourite  pieces  are  distinguished  by  your  par- 
ticular approbation.  For  my  "  Dream,"  which 
has  unfortunately  incurred  your  loyal  displea- 
sure, I  hope  in  four  weeks,  or  less,  to  have  the 
honour  of  appearing,  at  Dunlop,  vx  its  defence 
in  person.  B  B. 


£J44 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


LVII. 

TO   THE   REV.   DR.    HUGH  BLAIR. 

[The  answer  of  Dr.  Blair  to  this  letter  contains  the 
fol  owing  passage:  "Your  situation,  as  you  say,  was 
in;leed  very  singular :  and  in  being  brought  out  all  at 
onca  from  the  shades  of  deepest  privacy  to  so  great  a 
shara  of  public  notice  and  observation,  you  had  to  stand 
a  severe  trial.  I  am  happy  you  have  stood  it  so  well, 
and,  as  far  as  I  have  known,  or  heard,  though  in  the 
midst  of  many  temptations,  without  reproach  to  your 
character  or  fcDhaviour."] 

Lawn-market,  Edinburgh,  Zd  May,  1787. 
Reverend  and  much-respected  Sir, 

I  LEAVE  Edinburgh  to-morrow  morning,  but 
could  not  go  without  troubling  you  with  half  a 
line,  sincerely  to  thank  you  for  the  kindness, 
patronage,  and  friendship  you  have  shown  me. 
I  often  felt  the  embarrassment  of  my  singular 
situation  ;  drawn  forth  from  the  veriest  shades 
of  life  to  the  glare  of  remark;  and  honoured  by 
the  notice  of  those  illustrious  names  of  my  coun- 
try whose  works,  while  they  are  applauded  to 
the  end  of  time,  will  ever  instruct  and  mend  the 
heart.  However  the  meteor-like  novelty  of  my 
appearance  in  the  world  might  attract  notice, 
and  honour  me  with  the  acquaintance  of  the  per- 
manent lights  of  genius  and  literature,  those 
who  are  truly  benefactors  of  the  immortal  na- 
ture of  man,  I  knew  vei'y  well  that  my  utmost 
merit  was  far  unequal  to  the  task  of  preserving 
that  character  when  once  the  novelty  was  over; 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  abuse,  or  almost 
even  neglect,  will  not  surprise  me  in  my  quar- 
ters. 

I  have  sent  you  a  proof  impression  of  Beugo's 
work^  for  me,  done  on  Indian  paper,  as  a  tri- 
fling but  sincere  testimony  with  what  heartwarm 
gratitude  I  am,  &c.  R,  B. 


LVIII. 
TO   THE   EARL   OF   GLENCAIRN. 

LThe  poet  addressed  the  following  letter  to  the  Earl 
of  Glencairn,  when  he  commenced  his  journey  to  tlie 
Border.  It  was  first  printed  in  the  third  edition  of  Lock- 
hart's  Life  of  Burns;  an  eloquent  and  manly  work.] 

My  Lord, 
I  GO  away  to-morrow  morning  early,  and  al- 
low me  to  vent  the  fulness  of    my  heart,   in 
thanking  your  lordship  for  all  that  patronage, 

The  portrnil  of  the  poet  after  Nasmyth. 


that  benevolence  and  that  friendship  with  which 
you  have  honoured  me.  With  brimful  eyes,  I 
pray  that  you  may  find  in  that  great  Being, 
whose  image  you  so  nobly  bear,  that  friend 
which  I  have  found  in  you.  My  gratitude  is  not 
selfish  design — that  I  disdain — it  is  not  dodging 
after  the  heels  of  greatness — that  is  an  ofl'ering 
you  disdain.  It  is  a  feeling  of  the  same  Kind 
with  my  devotion.  R.  B. 


LIX. 
TO   MR.  WILLIAM   DUNBAR. 

[WilliamDunbar,  Colonel  of  the  Crochajlan  Fencibles. 
The  name  has  a  martial  sound,  but  the  corps  which  he 
commanded  was  a  club  of  wits,  whose  courage  was  exer- 
cised on  "paitricks,  teals,  moorpowts,  and  plovers."] 

Lawn-market,  Monday  morning. 
Dear  Sir, 

In  justice  to  Spenser,  I  must  acknowledge 
that  there  is  scarcely  a  poet  in  the  language 
could  have  been  a  more  agreeable  present  to 
me ;  and  in  justice  to  you,  allow  me  to  say.  Sir, 
that  I  have  not  met  with  a  man  in  Edinburgh  to 
whom  I  would  so  willingly  have  been  indebted 
for  the  gift.  The  tattered  rhymes  I  herewith 
present  you,  and  the  handsome  volumes  of 
Spenser  for  which  I  am  so  much  indebted  to 
your  goodness,  may  perhaps  be  not  in  proportion 
to  one  another ;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  my  gift, 
though  far  less  valuable,  is  as  sincere  a  mark 
of  esteem  as  yours. 

The  time  is  approaching  when  I  shall  return 
to  my  shades ;  and  I  am  afraid  my  numerous 
Edinburgh  friendships  are  of  so  tender  a  con- 
struction, that  they  will  not  bear  carriage  with 
me.  Yours  is  one  of  the  few  that  I  could  wish 
of  a  more  robust  constitution.  It  is  indeed 
very  probable  that  when  I  leave  ihis  city,  we 
part  never  more  to  meet  in  this  sublunary 
sphere ;  but  I  have  a  strong  fancy  that  in  some 
future  eccentric  planet,  the  comet  of  happier 
systems  than  any  with  which  astronomy  is  yet 
acquainted,  you  and  I,  among  the  harum  scarum 
sons  of  imagination  and  whim,  with  a  hearty 
shake  of  a  hand,  a  metaphor  and  a  laugh,  shall 
recognise  old  acquaintance : 

«<  Where  wit  may  sparkle  all  its  rays, 
Uncurs'd  w^ith  caution's  fears; 
That  pleasure,  basking  in  the  blaze 
Rejoice  for  endless  years"  • 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


84* 


I  have  the  honour  to  be,  with  the  warmest 
gincerity,  dear  Sir,  &c.  R.  B. 


LX. 
TO  JAMES  JOHNSON. 

[James  Johnson  was  an  engraver  in  Edinburgh,  and 
j)roprietor  of  the  Musical  Museum;  a  truly  national 
work;  for  which  Burns  wrote  or  amended  many  songs.] 

Lawn-marketf  Friday  noon,  3  May,  1787. 
Dear  Sir, 

I  HAVE  sent  you  a  song  never  before  known, 
for  your  collection;  the  air  by  M'Gibbon,  but 
I  know  not  the  author  of  the  words,  as  I  got  it 
from  Dr.  Blacklock. 

Farewell,  my  dear  Sir !  I  wished  to  have  seen 
you,  but  I  have  been  dreadfully  throng,  as  I 
march  to-morrow.  Had  my  acquaintance  with 
you  been  a  little  older,  I  would  have  asked  the 
favour  of  your  correspondence,  as  I  have  met 
with  few  people  whose  company  and  conversa- 
tion gives  me  so  much  pleasure,  because  I  have 
met  with  few  whose  sentiments  are  so  congenial 
to  my  own. 

When  Dunbar  and  you  meet,  tell  him  that  I 
left  Edinburgh  with  the  idea  of  him  hanging 
somewhere  about  my  heart. 

Keep  the  original  of  the  song  till  we  meet 
again,  whenever  that  may  be.  R.  B. 


LXI. 

TO  WILLIAM  CREECH,   ESQ. 

EDINBURGH. 

[This  characteristic  letter  was  written  during  the 
poel's  border  tour  :  he  narrowly  escaped  a  soaking  with 
w^.ifikey,  as  well  as  with  water;  for,  according  to  the 
l.-ttrick  Shepherd,  "a  couple  of  Yarrow  lads,  lovers  of 
poesy  and  punch,  awaited  his  coming  to  Selkirk,  but 
wt'u'.d  not  believe  that  the  parson-looking,  black-avised 
man,  '.rho  rode  up  to  the  inn,  more  like  a  drouket  craw 
than  a  p:et,  could  be  Burns,  and  so  went  disappointed 
away."] 

Selkirk,  \Zth  May,  1787. 
Mt  honoured  Friend, 
The  enclosed  I  have  just  wrote,  nearly  ex- 
tempore, in  a  solitary  inn  in  Selkirk,  after  a 
miserable  wet  day's  riding.     I  have  been  over 
most  of  East  Lothian,  Berwick,  Roxburgh,  and 

I  James,  Earl  of  Gleacuirn. 


Selkirk-shires ;  and  next  week  I  begin  a  tour 
through  the  north  of  England.  Yesterday  I 
dined  with  Lady  Harriet,  sister  to  my  noble 
patron,!  Qricm  Dens  conservet!  I  would  write  till 
I  would  tire  you  as  much  with  dull  prose,  as  I 
dare  say  by  this  time  you  are  with  wretched 
verse,  but  I  am  jaded  to  death;  so,  with  a 
grateful  farewell, 

I  have  the  honour  to  be. 

Good  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

R.  B. 

Auld  chuckie  Reekie's  sair  distrest, 
Down  drops  her  ance  weel  burnish'd  crest, 
Nae  joy  her  bonnie  buskit  nest 

Can  yield  ava ; 
Her  darling  bird  that  she  loves  best, 

Willie's  awa.2 


LXII. 
TO  MR.   PATISON, 

BOOKSELLER,     PAISLEY. 

[This  letter  has  a  business  air  about  it:  the  name  of 
Patison  is  nowhere  else  to  be  found  in  the  poet's  corres 
pondence.] 

Berry-well,  near  Dunse,  May  llth,  1787 
Dear  Sir, 
I  AM  sorry  I  was  out  of  Edinburgh,  making  a 
slight  pilgrimage  to  the  classic  scenes  of  this 
country,  when  I  was  favoured  with  yours  of  the 
llth  instant,  enclosing  an  order  of  the  Paisley 
banking  company  on  the  royal  bank,  for  twenty- 
two  pounds  seven  shillings  sterling,  payment  in 
full,  after  carriage  deducted,  for  ninety  copies 
of  my  book  I  sent  you.  According  to  your 
motions,  I  see  you  will  have  left  Scotland 
before  this  reaches  you,  otherwise  I  would  send 
you  "Holy  Willie"  with  all  my  heart.  I  was 
so  hurried  that  I  absolutely  forgot  several  things 
I  ought  to  have  minded,  among  the  rest  sending 
books  to  Mr.  Cowan ;  but  any  order  of  yours 
will  be  answered  at  Creech's  shop.  You  will 
please  remember  that  non-subscribers  pay  six 
shillings,  this  is  Creech's  profit ;  but  those  who 
have  subscribed,  though  their  names  have  been 
neglected  in  the  printed  list,  which  is  very  in- 
correct, are  supplied  at  subscription  price.  I 
was  not  at  Glasgow,  nor  do  I  intend  for  Lon- 
don ;  and  I  think  Mrs.  Fame  is  very  idle  to  teU 

a  See  Poem  LXXXIII. 


Di6 


GENEKAL   COKRESPONDENCE 


so  many  lies  on  a  poor  poet.  When  you  or  Mr. 
Cowan  write  for  copies,  if  you  should  want  any 
direct  to  Mr.  Hill,  at  Mr.  Creech's  shop,  and  I 
write  to  Mr.  Hill  by  this  post,  to  answer  either 
of  your  orders.  Hill  is  Mr.  Creech's  first  clerk, 
and  Creech  himself  is  presently  in  London.  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  the  pleasure,  against  your 
return  to  Paisley,  of  assuring  you  how  much  I 
am,  dear  Sir,  your  obliged  humble  servant, 

KB. 


LXIII. 
TO  W.   NICOL,  ESQ., 

MASTER   OF   THE    HIGH   SCHOOL,   EDINBURGH. 

[Jenny  Geddes  was  a  zealous  old  woman,  who  threw 
the  stool  on  which  she  sat,  at  the  Dean  of  Edinburgh's 
head,  when,  in  1637,  he  attempted  to  introduce  a  Scottish 
Liturgy,  and  cried  as  she  threw,  "  Villain,  wilt  thou  say 
the  mass  at  my  lug!"  The  poet  named  his  mare  after 
this  virago.] 

Carlisle,  June  1.,  1787. 
Kind,  honest-hearted  Willie, 

I'm  sitten  down  here  after  seven  and  forty 
miles  ridin',  e'en  as  forjesket  and  forniaw'd  as 
a  forfoughten  cock,  to  gie  you  some  notion  o' 
my  land  lowper-like  stravaguin  sin  the  sorrow- 
fu'  hour  that  I  sheuk  hands  and  parted  wi'  auld 
Reekie. 

My  auld,  ga'd  gleyde  o'  a  meere  has  huch- 
yall'd  up  hill  and  down  brae,  in  Scotland  and 
England,  as  teugh  and  birnie  as  a  vera  devil  wi' 
me.  It's  true,  she's  as  poor's  a  sang-maker  and  as 
hard's  a  kirk,  and  tipper-taipers  when  she  taks 
the  gate,  first  like  a  lady's  gentlewoman  in  a 
minuwae,  or  a  hen  on  a  het  girdle ;  but  she's  a 
yauld,  poutherie  Girran  for  a'  that,  and  has  a 
Btomack  like  Willie  Stalker's  meere  that  wad 
hae  disgeested  tumbler-wheels,  for  she'll  whip 
me  aflf  her  five  stimparts  o'  the  best  aits  at  a 
down-sittin  and  ne'er  fash  her  thumb.  When 
ance  her  ringbanes  and  spavies,  her  crucks  and 
cramps,  are  fairly  soupl'd,  she  beets  to,  beets 
tj,  and  ay  the  hindmost  hour  the  tightest.  I 
could  wager  her  price  to  a  thretty  pennies,  that 
for  twa  or  three  wooks  ridin  at  fifty  miles  a  day, 
the  deil-stricket  a  five  gallopers  acqueesh  Clyde 
and  Whithorn  could  cast  saut  on  her  tail. 

I  hae  dander'd  owre  a'  the  kintra  frae  Dum- 
bar  to  Selcraig,  and  hae  forgather'd  wi'  monie 
a  guid  fallow,  and  monie  a  weelfar'd  huzzie.  I 
met  wi'  twa  dink  quines  in  particular,  ane  o' 
them  a  sonsie,  fine,  fodgel  lass,  baith  braw  and 


bonnie  ;  the  tither  was  a  clean-shankit,  straught, 
tight,  weelfar'd  winch,  as  blythe'sa  lintwhiteona 
flowerie  thorn,  and  as  sweet  and  modest's  a  new- 
blawn  plumrose  in  a  hazle  shaw.  They  were 
baith  bred  to  mainers  by  the  beuk,  and  onie  ane 
o'  them  hadasmuckle  smeddum  and  rurablegum- 
tion  as  the  half  o'  some  presbytries  that  you  and 
I  baith  ken.  They  play'd  me  sik  a  deevil  o'  a 
shavie  that  I  daur  say  if  my  harigals  were  turn'd 
out,  ye  wad  see  twa  nicks  i'  the  heart  o'  me  like 
the  mark  o'  a  kail-whittle  in  a  castock. 

I  was  gaun  to  write  you  a  lang  pystle,  but, 
Gude  forgie  me,  I  gat  mysel  sae  noutouriously 
bitchify'd  the  day  after  kail-time,  that  I  can 
hardly  stoiter  but  and  ben. 

My  best  respecks  to  the  guidwife  and  a'  our 
common  friens,  especiall  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cruik- 
shank,  and  the  honest  guidman  o'  Jock's  Lodge. 

I'll  be  in  Dumfries  the  morn  gif  the  beast  be 
to  the  fore,  and  the  branks  bide  hale. 
Gude  be  wi'  you,  Willie  !  Amen ! 

R.  B. 


LXIV. 
TO   MR.   JAMES   SMITH, 

AT   MILLER  AND    SMITh's    OFFICE,   LINLITHGOW. 

[Burns,  it  seems  by  this  letter,  had  still  a  belief  thai 
he  would  be  obliged  to  try  his  fortune  in  the  West  Indies: 
he  soon  saw  how  hollow  all  the  hopes  were,  which  had 
been  formed  by  his  friends  of  "pension,  post  or  place," 
in  his  native  land.] 

Mauchline,  llth  June,  1787. 

My  EVER  DEAR  SiR, 

I  DATE  this  from  Mauchline,  where  I  arrived 
on  Friday  even  last.  I  slept  at  John  Dow's,  and 
called  for  my  daughter.  Mr.  Hamilton  and 
family ;  your  mother,  sister,  and  brother ;  my 
quondam  Eliza,  «&c.,  all  well.  If  anything  had 
been  wanting  to  disgust  me  completely  at  Ar- 
mour's family,  their  mean,  servile  compliance 
would  have  done  it. 

Give  me  a  spirit  like  my  favourite  hero,  Mil- 
ton's Satan : 

Hail,  horrors  !  haiJ^ 
Infernal  world  !  "and  thou  profoundest  hell. 
Receive  thy  new  possessor !  he  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  chang'd  by  place  or  time  ! 

I  cannot  settle  to  my  mind. — Farming,  the 
only  thing  of  which  1  know  anything,  and 
heaven  above  knows  but  little  do  I  understand 
of  that,  I  cannot,  dare  not  risk  on  farms  aa 
they  are.     K  I  do  not  fix  I  will  go  for  Jamaica. 


OF   KOBEllT   BURNS. 


34/ 


Should  I  stay  in  an  unsettled  state  at  home,  I 
would  only  dissipate  my  little  fortune,  and 
ruin  what  1  intend  shall  compensate  my  little 
ones,  for  tiie  stigma  I  have  brought  on  their 
names. 

I  shall  write  you  more  at  large  soon ;  as  this 
letter  costs  you  no  postage,  if  it  be  worth  read- 
ing you  cannot  complain  of  your  penny-worth. 
I  am  ever,  my  dear  Sir, 
Yours, 

R.  B. 

P.S.  The  cloot  has  unfortunately  broke,  but 
I  have  provided  a  fine  buffalo-horn,  on  which  I 
am  going  to  afl&x  the  same  cipher  which  you 
will  remember  was  on  the  lid  of  the  cloot. 


LXV. 
TO  WILLIAM  NICOL,   ESQ. 

^The  charm  which  Dumfries  threw  over  the  poet, 
seems  to  have  dissolved  like  a  spell,  when  he  sat  down 
in  Ellisland :  he  spoke,  for  a  time,  with  little  respect  of 
either  place  or  people.] 

Mauchline,  June  18,  1787. 
My  dear  Feiend, 

I  AM  now  arrived  safe  in  my  native  country, 
after  a  very  agreeable  jaunt,  and  have  the  plea- 
sure to  find  all  my  friends  well.  I  breakfasted 
with  your  gray-headed,  reverend  friend,  Mr. 
Smith ;  and  was  highly  pleased  both  with  the 
cordial  welcome  he  gave  me,  and  his  most  ex- 
cellent appearance  and  sterling  good  sense. 

I  have  been  with  Mr.  Miller  at  Dalswinton, 
and  am  to  meet  him  again  in  August.  From 
my  view  of  the  lands,  and  his  reception  of  my 
hardship,  my  hopes  in  that  business  are  rather 
mended ;  but  still  they  are  but  slender. 

I  am  quite  charmed  with  Dumfries  folks — 
Mr.  Burnside,  the  clergyman,  in  particular,  is 
a  man  whom  I  shall  ever  gratefully  remember; 
and  his  wife,  Gude  forgie  me !  I  had  almost 
broke  the  tenth  commandment  on  her  account. 
Simplicity,  elegance,  good  sense,  sweetness  of 
disposition,  good  humour,  kind  hospitality,  are 
the  constituents  of  her  manner  and  heart:  in 
short — but  if  I  say  one  word  more  about  her,  I 
shall  be  directly  in  love  with  her. 

I  never,  my  friend,  thought  mankind  very  ca- 
pable of  anything  generous ;  but  the  stateliness 
of  the  patricians  in  Edinburgh,  and  the  servility 
of  my  plebeian  brethren  (who  perhaps  formerly 
tjed    me    askance)    since  I  returned    home, 


have  nearly  put  me  out  of  conceit  altogethei 
with  my  species.  I  have  bought  a  pocket  Mil 
ton,  which  I  carry  perpetually  about  with  me, 
in  order  to  study  the  sentiments — the  dauntless 
magnanimity,  the  intrepid,  unyielding  inde- 
pendence, the  desperate  daring,  and  noble  de- 
fiance of  hardship,  in  that  great  personage,  Sa» 
TAN.  'Tis  true,  I  have  just  now  a  little  cash ; 
but  I  am  afraid  the  star  that  hitherto  has  shed 
its  malignant,  purpose-blasting  rays  full  in  my 
zenith ;  that  noxious  planet  so  baneful  in  its 
influences  to  the  rhyming  tribe,  I  much  dread 
it  is  not  yet  beneath  my  horizon. —  Misfortune 
dodges  the  path  of  human  life  ;  the  poetic  mind 
finds  itself  miserably  deranged  in,  and  unfit  for 
the  walks  of  business ;  add  to  all,  that  thought- 
less follies  and  hare-brained  whims,  like  so  many 
iffnes  fatui,  eternally  diverging  from  the  right 
line  of  sober  discretion,  sparkle  with  step-be- 
witching blaze  in  the  idly-gazing  eyes  of  the 
poor  heedless  bard,  till,  pop,  "  he  falls  like  Lu- 
cifer, never  to  hope  again."  God  grant  this 
may  be  an  unreal  picture  with  respect  to  me ! 
but  should  it  not,  I  have  very  little  dependence 
on  mankind.  I  will  close  my  letter  with  this 
tribute  my  heart  bids  me  pay  you — the  many 
ties  of  acquaintance  and  friendship  which  1 
have,  or  think  I  have  in  life,  I  have  felt  along 
the  lines,  and,  damn  them,  they  are  almost  all 
of  them  of  such  frail  contexture,  that  I  am  sure 
they  would  not  stand  the  breath  of  the  least  ad- 
verse breeze  of  fortune ;  but  from  you,  my  ever 
dear  Sir,  I  look  with  confidence  for  the  aposto- 
lic love  that  shall  wait  on  me  "through  good 
report  and  bad  report" — the  love  which  Solo- 
mon emphatically  says  "  is  strong  as  death." 
My  compliments  to  Mrs.  Nicol,  and  all  the  circle 
of  our  common  friends. 

P.  S.     I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh  about  the  lat- 
ter end  of  July.  R.  B. 


LXVI. 

TO   MR.   JAMES   CANDLISIL 

[Cnndlish  wns  a  clanic  scholar,  bat  had  a  love  for  the 
Bt)ng8  of  S<-otland,  as  well  as  for  the  poetry  of  Greece 
and  Rome.] 

Edinburgh,  1787. 
Mr  DEAK  Fribmd, 

If  once  I  were  gone  from  this  scene  of  hurry 
and  dissipation,  I  promise  myself  the  pleasure 
of  that   correspondence  being  renewed  which 


348 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


has  been  so  long  broken.  At  present  I  have 
time  for  nothing.  Dissipation  and  business  en- 
gross every  moment.  I  am  engaged  in  assist- 
ing an  honest  Scotch  enthusiast,'  a  friend  of 
mine,  who  is  an  engraver,  and  has  taken  it  into 
his  head  to  publish  a  collection  of  all  our  songs 
Bet  to  music,  of  which  the  words  and  music  are 
done  by  Scotsmen.  This,  you  will  easily  guess, 
is  an  undertaking  exactly  to  my  taste.  I  have 
collected,  begged,  borrowed,  and  stolen,  all  the 
Bongs  I  could  meet  with.  Pompey's  Ghost,  words 
and  music,  I  beg  from  you  immediately,  to  go 
into  his  second  number:  the  first  is  already 
published.  I  shall  show  you  the  first  number 
when  I  see  you  in  Glasgow,  which  will  be  in  a 
fortnight  or  less.  Do  be  so  kind  as  to  send  me 
the  song  in  a  day  or  two ;  you  cannot  imagine 
how  much  it  will  oblige  me. 

Direct  to  me  at  Mr.    W.   Cruikshank's,   St. 
James's  Square,  New  Town,  Edinburgh. 

R.  B. 


LXVII. 

TO   ROBERT  AINSLIE,    ESQ. 

["  Burns  had  a  memory  stored  with  the  finest  poetical 
passages,  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  quoting  most 
aptly  in  his  correspondence  with  his  friends:  and  he  de- 
lighted also  in  repeating  them  in  the  company  of  those 
friends  who  enjoyed  them."  These  are  the  words  of 
Ainslie,  of  Berrywell,  to  whom  this  letter  is  addressed.] 

Arracher,  2Sth  June,  1787. 
My  dear  Sir, 
I  WRITE  on  my  tour  through  a  country  where 
savage  streams  tumble  over  savage  mountains, 
thinly  overspread  with  savage  flocks,  which 
sparingly  support  as  savage  inhabitants.  My 
last  stage  was  Inverary — to-morrow  night's 
stage  Dumbarton.  I  ought  sooner  to  have  an- 
swered your  kind  letter,  but  you  know  I  am  a 
man  of  many  sins.  R.  B. 


LXVIII. 
TO  WILLIAM  NICOL,  ESQ. 

[This  visit  to  Auchtertyre  produced  that  sweet  lyric, 
Wginning  "  BJythe,  blythe  and  merry  was  she:"  and  the 


lady  who  inspired  it  was  at  his  side,  when  he  wrote  this 
.etter.] 

Auchtertyre,  Monday,  June,  1787. 
My  dear  Sir, 
I  FIND  myself  very  comfortable  here,  neither 
oppressed  by  ceremony  nor  mortified  by  neg- 
lect. Lady  Augusta  is  a  most  engaging  woman, 
and  very  happy  in  her  family,  which  makes 
one's  outgoings  and  incomings  very  agreeable. 
I  called  at  Mr.  Ramsay's  of  Auchtertyre  as  I 
came  up  the  country,  and  am  so  delighted  with 
him  that  I  shall  certainly  accept  of  his  invita- 
tion to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  him  as  I  return. 
I  leave  this  place  on  Wednesday  or  Thursday. 

Make  my  kind  compliments  to  Mr.  and  Mrs, 
Cruikshank  and  Mrs.  Nicol,  if  she  is  returned. 
I  am  ever,  dear  Sir, 

Your  deeply  indebted, 

R.  B. 


»  Johnson,  the  i  ublisher  and  proprietor  of  the  Musical 
Museum. 


LXIX. 

TO  WILLIAM  CRUIKSHANK,  ESQ. 
ST.  James's  square,  Edinburgh. 

[At  the  house  of  William  Cru  kshanlc,  one  A  tr.e  mas- 
ters of  the  High  School,  in  Edinburgh,  Burns  passed 
many  agreeable  hours.] 

Auchtertyre,  Monday  morning. 
I  HAVE  nothing,  my  dear  Sir,  to  write  to  you 
but  that  I  feel  myself  exceedingly  confortably 
situated  in  this  good  family :  just  notice  enough 
to  make  me  easy  but  not  to  embarrass  me.  I  was 
storm-staid  two  days  at  the  foot  of  the  Ochill- 
hills,  with  Mr.  Trait  of  Herveyston  and  Mr. 
Johnston  of  Alva,  but  was  so  well  pleased  that 
I  shall  certainly  spend  a  day  on  the  banks  of 
the  Devon  as  I  return.  I  leave  this  place  I 
suppose  on  Wednesday,  and  shall  devote  a  day 
to  Mr.  Ramsay  at  Auchtertyre,  near  Stirling: 
a  man  to  whose  worth  I  cannot  do  justice.  My 
respectful  kind  compliments  to  Mrs.  Cruik- 
shank, and  my  dear  little  Jeanie,  and  if  you 
see  Mr.  Masterton,  please  remember  me  to  him. 


I  am  ever, 


My  dear  Sir,  &c. 


R.  B. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


849 


LXX. 
TO   MR.   JAMES  SMITH, 

LINLITHGOW. 

[The  young  ladv  to  whom  the  poet  alludes  in  this  let- 
ter, was  very  beautiful,  and  very  proud  :  it  is  said  she 
gave  him  a  specimen  of  both  her  temper  and  her  pride, 
when  he  touched  on  the  subject  of  love.] 

June  30,  1787. 
My  dear  Friend, 
On  our  return,  at  a  Highland  gentleman's 
hospitable  mansion,  we  fell  in  with  a  merry 
party,  and  danced  till  the  ladies  left  us,  at  three 
in  the  morning.  Our  dancing  was  none  of  the 
French  or  English  insipid  formal  movements ; 
the  ladies  sung  Scotch  songs  like  angels,  at 
intervals ;  then  we  flew  at  Bab  at  the  Bowster, 
Tullochgorum,  Loch  Erroch  Side,  &c.,  like 
midges  sporting  in  the  mottie  sun,  or  craws 
prognosticating  a  storm  in  a  hairst  day. — When 
the  dear  lasses  left  us,  we  ranged  round  the 
bowl  till  the  good-fellow  hour  of  six ;  except  a 
few  minutes  that  we  went  out  to  pay  our  devo- 
tions to  the  glorious  lamp  of  day  peering  over 
the  towering  top  of  Benlomond.  We  all  kneeled ; 
our  worthy  landlord's  son  held  the  bowl ;  each 
man  a  full  glass  in  his  hand ;  and  I,  as  priest, 
repeated  some  rhyming  nonsense,  like  Thomas- 
a-Rhymer's  prophecies  I  suppose. — After  a  small 
refreshment  of  the  gifts  of  Somnus,  we  pro- 
ceeded to  spend  the  day  on  Lochlomond,  and 
reach  Dumbarton  in  the  evening.  We  dined  at 
another  good  fellow's  house,  and  consequently, 
pushed  the  bottle  ;  when  we  went  out  to  mount 
our  horses,  we  found  ourselves  "  No  vera  fou 
but  gaylie  yet."  My  two  friends  and  I  rode 
soberly  down  the  Loch  side,  till  by  came  a 
Highlandman  at  the  gallop,  on  a  tolerably 
good  horse,  but  which  had  never  known  the 
ornaments  of  iron  or  leather.  We  scorned  to  be 
out-galloped  by  a  Highlandman,  so  off  we 
started,  whip  and  spur.  My  companions,  though 
seemingly  gaily  mounted,  fell  sadly  astern;  but 
my  old  mare,  Jenny  Geddes,  one  of  the  Rosinante 
family,  she  strained  past  the  Highlandman  in 
Bpite  of  all  his  efforts  with  the  hair  halter ;  just 
as  I  was  passing  him,  Donald  wheeled  his  horse, 
as  if  to  cross  before  me  to  mar  my  progress, 
when  down  came  his  horse,  and  threw  his  rider's 
breekless  a — e  in  a  dipt  hedge ;  and  down  came 
Jenny  Geddes  over  all,  and  my  hardship  be- 
tween her  and  the  Highlandman's  horse.  Jenny 
Geddes  trode  over  me  with  such  cautious  re- 
verence, that  matters  were  not  so  bad  as  might 


well  have  been  expected ;  so  I  came  off  with  a 
few  cuts  and  bruises,  and  a  thorough  resolution 
to  be  a  pattern  of  sobriety  for  the  future. 

I  have  yet  fixed  on  nothing  with  respect  to 
the  serious  business  of  life.  I  am,  just  as  usual, 
a  rhyming,  mason-making,  raking,  aimless,  idle 
fellow.  However,  I  shall  somewhere  have  a 
farm  soon.  I  was  going  to  say,  a  wife  too ;  but 
that  must  never  be  my  blessed  lot.  I  am  but  a 
younger  son  of  the  house  of  Parnassus,  and 
like  other  younger  sons  of  great  families,  I  may 
inti-igue,  if  I  choose  to  run  all  risks,  but  must 
not  marry. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  almost  ruined  one  source 
the  principal  one,  indeed,  of  my  former  happi 
ness ;  that  eternal  propensity  I  always  had  Ut 
fall  in  love.  My  heart  no  more  glows  with  f^~ 
verish  rapture.  I  have  no  paradisaical  evening 
interviews,  stolen  from  the  restless  cares  and 
prying  inhabitants  of  this  weary  world.  I  have 
only  *  *  *  *.  This  last  is  one  of  your  distant 
acquaintances,  has  a  fine  figure,  and  elegant 
manners  ;  and  in  the  train  of  some  great  folks 
whom  you  know,  has  seen  the  politest  quarters 
in  Europe.  I  do  like  her  a  good  deal ;  but  what 
piques  me  is  her  conduct  at  the  commencement 
of  our  acquaintance.  I  frequently  visited  her 
when  I  was  in ,  and  after  passing  regu- 
larly the  intermediate  degrees  between  the  dis- 
tant formal  bow  and  the  familiar  grasp  round 
the  waist,  I  ventured,  in  my  careless  way,  to 
talk  of  friendship  in  rather  ambiguous  terms; 

and  after  her  return  to ,  I  wrote  to  her 

in  the  same  style.  Miss,  construing  my  words 
farther  I  suppose  than  even  I  intended,  flew  off 
in  a  tangent  of  female  dignity  and  reserve,  like 
a  mounting  lark  in  an  April  morning  ;  and  wrote 
me  an  answer  which  measured  me  out  very  com- 
pletely what  an  immense  way  I  had  to  travel 
before  I  could  reach  the  climate  of  her  favour. 
But  I  am  an  old  hawk  at  the  sport,  and  wrote 
her  such  a  cool,  deliberate,  prudent  reply,  ai 
brought  my  bird  from  her  aerial  towerings,  pep, 
down  at  my  foot,  like  Corporal  Trim's  hat. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  acts,  and  my  wars,  and 
all  my  wise  sayings,  and  why  my  mare  was 
called  Jenny  Geddes,  they  shall  be  recorded  iq 
a  few  weeks  hence  at  Linlithgow,  in  the  chro- 
nicles of  your  memory,  by  R.  R 


B50 


GENEllAL   COliKESPONDENCE 


LXXI. 
TO   MR    JOHN   RICHMOND. 

[Mr  John  Richmond,  writer,  was  one  of  the  poet's 
earliest  and  firmest  friends ;  he  shared  his  roor|  with  him 
when  they  met  in  Edinburgh,  and  did  him  lAany  little 
offices  of  kindness  and  regard.] 

Mossgiel,  7th  July,  1787. 
My  dear  Richmond, 

I  AM  all  impatience  to  hear  of  your  fate  since 
the  old  confounder  of  right  and  wrong  has 
turned  you  out  of  place,  by  his  journey  to  an- 
swer his  indictment  at  the  bar  of  the  other 
world.  He  will  find  the  practice  of  the  court  so 
different  from  the  practice  in  which  he  has  for 
so  many  years  been  thoroughly  hackneyed,  that 
his  friends,  if  he  had  any  connexions  truly  of 
that  kind,  which  I  rather  doubt,  may  well 
tremble  for  his  sake.  His  chicane,  his  left- 
handed  wisdom,  which  stood  so  firmly  by  him, 
to  such  good  purpose,  here,  like  other  accom- 
plices in  robbery  and  plunder,  will,  now  the 
piratical  business  is  blown,  in  all  probability 
turn  the  king's  evidences,  and  then  the  devil's 
bagpiper  will  touch  him  off  "  Bundle  and  go  !" 

If  he  has  left  you  any  legacy,  I  beg  your  par- 
don for  all  this ;  if  not,  I  know  you  will  swear 
to  every  word  I  said  about  him. 

I  have  lately  been  rambling  over  by  Dumbar- 
ton and  Inverary,  and  running  a  drunken  race 
on  the  side  of  Loch  Lomond  with  a  wild  High- 
landman ;  his  horse,  which  had  never  known 
the  ornaments  of  iron  or  leather,  zigzagged 
across  before  my  old  spavin'd  hunter,  whose 
name  is  Jenny  Geddes,  and  down  came  the 
Highlandraan,  horse  and  all,  and  down  came 
Jenny  and  my  hardship ;  so  I  have  got  such  a 
skinful  of  bruises  and  wounds,  that  I  shall  be 
at  least  four  weeks  before  I  dare  venture  on  my 
journey  to  Edinburgh. 

Not  one  new  thing  under  the  sun  has  hap- 
pened in  Mauchline  since  you  left  it.  I  hope 
this  will  find  you  as  comfortably  situated  as 
formerly,  or,  if  heaven  pleases,  more  so ;  but, 
at  all  events,  I  trust  you  will  let  me  know  of 
course  how  matters  stand  with  you,  well  or  ill. 
'Tis  but  poor  consolation  to  tell  the  world  when 
(natters  go  wrong ;  but  you  know  very  well  your 
ronnexion  and  mine  stands  on  a  different 
Tooting. 

I  am  ever,  my  dear  friend,  yours, 

R.  B. 


LXXII. 
TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,   ESQ. 

[This  letter,  were  proof  wanting,  shows  the  friendlj 
and  familiar  footing  on  which  Burns  stood  with  th« 
Ainslies,  and  more  particularly  with  the  author  of  that 
popular  work,  the  "  Reasons  for  the  Hope  that  is  in  us."] 

Mauchline,  2Sd  July,  1787. 
Mt  dear  Ainslie, 
There  is  one  thing  for  which  I  set  great  store 
by  you  as  a  friend,  and  it  is  this,  that  I  have  not 
a  friend  upon  earth,  besides  yourself,  to  whom 
I  can  talk  nonsense  without  forfeiting  some  de- 
gree of  his  esteem.  Now,  to  one  like  me,  who 
never  cares  for  speaking  anything  else  but  non- 
sense, such  a  friend  as  you  is  an  invaluable 
treasure.  I  was  never  a  rogue,  but  have  been 
a  fool  all  my  life ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  my  endea- 
vours, I  see  now  plainly  that  I  shall  never  be 
wise.  Now  it  rejoices  my  heart  to  have  met 
with  such  a  fellow  as  you,  who,  though  you  are 
not  just  such  a  hopeless  fool  as  I,  yet  I  trust 
you  will  never  listen  so  much  to  the  temptations 
of  the  devil  as  to  grow  so  very  wise  that  you 
will  in  the  least  disrespect  an  honest  follow  be- 
cause he  is  a  fool.  In  short,  I  have  set  you  down 
as  the  staff  of  my  old  age,  when  the  whole  list 
of  my  friends  will,  after  a  decent  share  of  pity, 
have  forgot  me. 

Though  in  the  morn  comes  sturt  and  strife. 

Yet  joy  may  come  at  noon  ; 
And  I  hope  to  live  a  merry,  merry  life 

When  a'  thir  days  are  done. 

Write  me  soon,  were  it  but  a  few  lines  just  to 
tell  me  how  that  good  sagacious  man  your 
father  is — that  kind  dainty  body  your  mother — 
that  strapping  chiel  your  brother  Douglas — and 
my  friend  Rachel,  who  is  as  far  before  Rachel 
of  old,  as  she  was  before  her  blear-eyed  sister 
Leah.  R.  B 


LXXIII. 

TO  ROBERT   AINSLIE,   ESQ. 

[The  "  savage  hospitality, "of  which  Burns  complains 
in  this  letter,  was  at  that  time  an  evil  fashion  in  Scotland  : 
the  bottle  was  made  to  circulate  rapidly,  and  dvery  glass 
was  drunk  "  clean  caup  out."] 

Mauchline,  July,  1787. 
My  dear  Slr, 

My  life,  since  I  saw  you  last,  has  been  one 
continued  hurry ;  that  savage  hospitality  which 


OF   ROBEKT   BURNS. 


351 


knocks  a  man  down  with  strong  liquors,  is  the 
devil.  I  1:  ave  a  sore  warfare  in  this  world ;  the 
devil,  the  world,  and  the  flesh  are  three  formi- 
dable foes.  The  first  I  generally  try  to  fly  from ; 
the  second,  alas !  generally  flies  from  me  ;  but 
the  third  is  my  plague,  worse  than  the  ten 
plagues  of  Egypt. 

I  have  been  looking  over  several  farms  in  this 
country  ;  one  in  particular,  in  Nithsdale,  pleased 
me  so  well,  that  if  my  off'er  to  the  proprietor  is 
accepted,  I  shall  commence  farmer  at  Whit- 
Sunday.  If  farming  do  not  appear  eligible,  I 
shall  have  recourse  to  my  other  shift:  but  this 
to  a  friend. 

I  set  out  for  Edinburgh  on  Monday  morning; 
aow  long  I  stay  there  is  uncertain,  but  you  will 
know  so  soon  as  I  can  inform  you  myself.  How- 
ever I  determine,  poesy  must  be  laid  aside  for 
some  time;  my  mind  has  been  vitiated  with 
idleness,  and  it  will  take  a  good  deal  of  effort 
to  habituate  it  to  the  routine  of  business. 
I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Yours  sincerely, 

R.  B. 


LXXIV. 
TO  DR.   MOORE. 


[Dr.  Moore  was  one  of  the  first  to  point  out  thebeauty  of 
the  lyric  compositions  of  Burns.  "'Green  grow  the 
Rashes,'  and  of  the  two  songs,"  says  he,  "  which  follow, 
beginning  'Again  rejoicing  nature  sees,'  and  'The 
gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast;'  the  latter  is  exquisite. 
By  the  way,  I  imagine  you  have  a  peculiar  talent  for  such 
compositions  which  you  ought  to  indulge:  no  kind  of 
poetry  demands  more  delicacy  or  higher  polishing."  On 
this  letter  to  Moore  all  the  biographies  of  Burns  are 
founded.] 


Sir, 


Mauchline,  2d  August,  1787. 


For  some  mouths  past  I  have  been  rambling 
over  the  country,  but  I  am  now  confined  with 
some  Havering  complaints,  originating,  as  I  take 
it,  in  the  stomach.  To  divert  my  spirits  a  little 
in  this  miserable  fog  of  ennui,  I  have  taken  a 
whim  to  give  you  a  history  of  myself.  My  name 
has  made  some  little  noise  in  this  country ;  you 
have  done  me  the  honour  to  interest  yourself 
very  warmly  in  my  behalf ;  and  I  think  a  faith- 
ful account  of  what  character  of  a  man  I  am, 
iind  how  I  came  by  that  character,  may  perhaps 
»muse  you  in  an  idle  moment.  I  will  give  you 
an  honest  narrative,  though  I  know  it  will  be 
often  at  my  own  expense  ;  for  I  assure  you.  Sir, 


I  have,  like  Solomon,  whose  character,  except- 
ing in  the  trifling  afi"air  of  wisdom,  I  sometimes 
think  I  resemble, — I  have,  I  say,  like  him  turned 
my  eyes  to  behold  madness  and  folly,  and 
like  him,  too,  frequently  shaken  hands  with  their 
intoxicating  friendship, — After  you  have  pe- 
rused these  pages,  should  you  think  them  trifling 
and  impertinent,  I  only  beg  leave  to  tell  you, 
that  the  poor  author  wrote  them  under  some 
twitching  qualms  of  conscience,  arising  from  a 
suspicion  that  he  was  doing  what  he  ought  not 
to  do ;  a  predicament  he  has  more  than  once 
been  in  before. 

I  have  not  the  most  distant  pretensions  to  as- 
sume that  character  which  the  pye-coated  guar- 
dians of  escutcheons  call  a  gentleman.  When 
at  Edinburgh  last  winter,  I  got  acquainted  in 
the  herald's  office  ;  and,  looking  through  that 
granary  of  honours,  I  there  found  almost  every 
name  in  the  kingdom  ;  but  for  me, 

"  My  ancient  but  ignoble  blood 
Has  crept  thro'  scoundrels  ever  since  the  flood." 

POPB. 

Gules,  purpure,  argent,  &c.,  quite  disowned  me 
My  father  was  of  the  north  of  Scotland,  the 
son  of  a  farmer,  and  was  thrown  by  early  mis 
fortunes  on  the  world  at  large ;  where,  after 
many  years'  wanderings  and  sojournings,  he 
picked  up  a  pretty  large  quantity  of  observa- 
tion and  experience,  to  which  I  am  indebted  for 
most  of  my  little  pretensions  to  wisdom — I  have 
met  with  few  who  understood  men,  their  man- 
ners, and  their  ways,  equal  to  him  ;  but  stub- 
born, ungainly  integrity,  and  headlong,  ungo- 
vernable irascibility,  are  disqualifying  circum- 
stances ;  consequently,  I  was  born  a  very  poor 
man's  son.  For  the  first  six  or  seven  years  of 
my  life,  my  father  was  gardener  to  a  worthy 
gentleman  of  small  estate  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Ayr.  Had  he  continued  in  that  station  I 
must  have  marched  off  to  be  one  of  the  little 
underlings  about  a  farm-house ;  but  it  was  his 
dearest  wish  and  prayer  to  have  it  in  his  power 
to  keep  his  children  under  his  own  eye,  till  they 
could  discern  between  good  and  evil ;  so,  with 
the  assistance  of  his  generous  master,  my  father 
ventured  on  a  small  farm  on  his  estate.  At 
those  years,  I  was  by  no  means  a  favourite 
with  anybody.  I  was  a  good  deal  noted  for  a 
retentive  memory,  a  stubborn  sturdy  something 
in  my  disposition,  and  an  enthusiastic  idiot' 
piety.     I  say  idiot  piety,  because  1  was  then 

•  Idiot  for  idiotic. 


352 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


but  a  child.  Though  it  30st  the  schoolmaster 
some  thrashings,  I  made  an  excellent  English 
scholar ;  and  by  the  time  I  was  ten  or  eleven  years 
of  age,  I  was  a  critic  in  substantives,  verbs,  and 
particles.  In  my  infant  and  boyish  days,  too, 
I  owed  much  to  an  old  woman  who  resided  in 
the  family,  remarkable  for  her  ignorance,  cre- 
dulity, and  superstition.  She  had,  I  suppose, 
the  largest  collection  in  the  country  of  tales  and 
songs  concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies,  brow- 
nies, witches,  warlocks,  spunkies,  kelpies,  elf- 
candles,  deadlights,  wraiths,  apparitions,  can- 
traips,  giants,  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and 
other  trumpery.  This  cultivated  the  latent 
seeds  of  poetry ;  but  had  so  strong  an  effect  on 
my  imagination,  that  to  this  hour,  in  my  noc- 
turnal rambles,  I  sometimes  keep  a  sharp  look 
out  in  suspicious  places  ;  and  though  nobody 
can  be  moie  sceptical  than  I  am  in  such  mat- 
ters, yet  it  often  takes  an  effort  of  philosophy 
to  shake  off  these  idle  terrors.  The  earliest 
composition  that  I  recollect  taking  pleasure  in, 
was  The  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  a  hymn  of  Addi- 
son's beginning,  "  How  are  thy  servants  blest, 

0  Lord  !"  I  particularly  remember  one  half- 
stanza  which  was  music  to  my  boyish  ear — 

"  For  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave — " 

1  met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  English  Col- 
lection, one  of  my  school-books.  The  first  two 
books  I  ever  read  in  private,  and  which  gave  me 
more  pleasure  than  any  two  books  I  ever  read 
since,  were  The  Life  of  Hannibal,  and  The  Histo- 
ry of  Sir  William  Wallace,  liannibal  gave  my 
young  ideas  such  a  turn,  that  I  used  to  strut  in 
raptures  up  and  down  after  the  recruiting  drum 
and  bag-pipe,  and  wish  myself  tall  enough  to 
be  a  soldier ;  while  the  story  of  Wallace  poured 
a  Scottish  prejudice  into  my  veins,  which  will 
boil  along  there  till  the  floodgates  of  life  shut 
in  eternal  rest. 

Polemical  divinity  about  this  time  was  putting 
the  country  half  mad,  and  I,  ambitious  of  shin- 
ing in  conversation  parties  on  Sundays,  between 
sermons,  at  funerals,  &c.,  used  a  few  years  after- 
wards to  puzzle  Calvinism  with  so  much  heat 
and  indiscretion,  that  I  raised  a  hue  and  cry  of 
heresy  against  me,  which  has  not  ceased  to  this 
hour. 

My  vicinity  to  Ayr  was  of  some  advantage  to 
me.  My  social  disposition,  when  not  checked 
by  some  modifications  of  spirited  pride,  was  like 
»ur  catechism  definition  of  infinitude,  without 


bounds  or  limits.  I  formed  several  connexioni 
with  other  younkers,  who  possessed  superior  ad- 
vantages ;  the  youngling  actors  who  were  busy 
in  the  rehearsal  of  parts,  in  which  they  were 
shortly  to  appear  on  the  stage  of  life,  where, 
alas!  I  was  destined  to  drudge  behind  the 
scenes.  It  is  not  commonly  at  this  green  age, 
that  our  young  gentry  have  a  just  sense  of  the 
immense  distance  between  them  and  their  ragged 
playfellows.  It  takes  a  few  dashes  into  the 
world,  to  give  the  young  great  man  that  projjcr, 
decent,  unnoticing  disregard  for  the  poor,  insig- 
nificant stupid  devils,  the  mechanics  and  pea- 
santry around  him,  who  were,  perhaps,  born  in 
the  same  village.  My  young  superiors  never 
insulted  the  clouterly  appearance  of  my  plough- 
boy  carcase,  the  two  extremes  of  which  were 
often  exposed  to  all  the  inclemencies  of  all  the 
seasons.  They  would  give  me  stray  volumes  of 
books ;  among  them,  even  then,  I  could  pick  up 
some  observations,  and  one,  whose  heart,  I  am 
sure,  not  even  the  "  Munny  Begum"  scenes  have 
tainted,  helped  me  to  a  little  French.  Parting 
with  these  my  young  friends  and  benefactors,  as 
they  occasionally  went  off  for  the  East  or  West 
Indies,  was  often  to  me  a  sore  affliction ;  but  I 
was  soon  called  to  more  serious  evils.  My 
father's  generous  master  died !  the  farm  proved 
a  ruinous  bargain  ;  and  to  clench  the  misfortune, 
we  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  factor,  who  sat  for 
the  picture  I  have  drawn  of  one  in  my  tale  of 
"  The  Twa  Dogs."  My  father  was  advanced  in 
life  when  he  married ;  I  was  the  eldest  of  seven 
children,  and  he,  worn  out  by  early  hardships, 
was  unfit  for  labour.  My  father's  spirit  was 
soon  irritated,  but  not  easily  broken.  There 
was  a  freedom  in  his  lease  in  two  years  more, 
and  to  weather  these  two  years,  we  retrenched 
our  expenses.  We  lived  very  poorly :  I  was  a 
dexterous  ploughman  for  my  age ;  and  the  next 
eldest  to  me  was  a  brother  (Gilbert),  who  could 
drive  the  plough  very  well,  and  help  me  to 
thrash  the  corn.  A  novel-writer  might,  perhaps, 
have  viewed  these  scenes  with  some  satisfac- 
tion, but  so  did  not  I ;  my  indignation  yet  boils 
at  the  recollection  of  the  scoundrel  factor's  in- 
solent threatening  letters,  which  used  to  set  us 
all  in  tears. 

This  kind  of  life — the  cheerless  gloom  of  a 
hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley- 
slave,  brought  me  to  my  sixteenth  year ;  a  little 
before  which  period  I  first  committed  the  sin  of 
rhyme.     You  know  our  country  custom  of  ecu- 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


353 


pling  a  man  and  woman  together  as  partners  in 
the  labours  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  autumn, 
my  partner  was  a  bewitching  creature,  a  year 
younger  than  myself.  My  scarcity  of  English 
denies  me  the  power  of  doing  her  justice  in  that 
language,  but  you  know  the  Scottish  idiom:  she 
was  a  "  bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie  lass."  In  short, 
she,  altogether  unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated 
me  in  that  delicious  passion,  which,  in  spite  of 
acid  disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence,  and 
bookworm  philosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first  of 
human  joys,  our  dearest  blessing  here  below! 
How  she  caught  the  contagion  I  cannot  tell ; 
you  medical  people  talk  much  of  infection  from 
breathing  the  same  air,  the  touch,  &c.;  but  I 
never  expressly  said  I  loved  her. — Indeed,  I  did 
not  know  myself  why  I  liked  so  much  to  loiter 
behind  with  her,  when  returning  in  the  evening 
from  our  labours  ;  why  the  tones  of  her  voice 
made  my  heart-strings  thrill  like  an  uEolian 
harp  ;  and  particularly  why  my  pulse  beat  such 
a  furious  ratan,  when  I  looked  and  fingered  over 
her  little  hand  to  pick  out  the  cruel  nettle-stings 
and  thistles.  Among  her  other  love-inspiring 
qualities,  she  sung  sweetly  ;  and  it  was  her  fa- 
vourite reel  to  which  I  attempted  giving  an  em- 
bodied vehicle  in  ryhme.  I  was  not  so  presump- 
tuous as  to  imagine  that  I  could  make  verses 
like  printed  ones,  composed  by  men  who  had 
Greek  and  Latin ;  but  my  girl  sung  a  song 
which  was  said  to  be  composed  by  a  small  coun- 
try laird's  son,  on  one  of  his  father's  maids, 
with  whom  he  was  in  love ;  and  I  saw  no  rea- 
son why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he  ;  for 
excepting  that  he  could  smear  sheep,  and  cast 
peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moorlands,  he  had 
no  more  scholar-craft  than  myself. 

Thus  with  me  began  love  and  poetry;  which 
at  times  have  been  my  only,  and  till  within  the 
last  twelve  months,  have  been  my  highest  en- 
joyment. My  father  struggled  on  till  he  reached 
the  freedom  in  his  lease,  when  he  entered  on  a 
larger  farm,  about  ten  miles  farther  in  the  coun- 
try. The  nature  of  the  bargain  he  made  was 
such  as  to  throw  a  little  ready  money  into  his 
hands  at  the  commencement  of  his  lease,  other- 
wise the  affair  would  have  been  impracticable. 
For  four  years  we  lived  comfortably  here,  but  a 
difference  commencing  between  him  and  his 
landlord  as  to  terms,  after  three  years  tossing 
and  whirling  in  the  vortex  of  litigation,  my  father 
was  just  saved  from  the  horrors  of  a  jail,  by  a 
consumption,  which,  after  two  years'  promises, 


kindly  stepped  in,  and  carried  him  away,  to 
where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and 
where  the  weary  are  at  rest ! 

It  is  during  the  time  that  we  lived  on  this  farm 
that  my  little  story  is  most  eventful,  I  was,  at 
the  beginning  of  this  period,  perhaps,  the  most 
ungainly  awkward  boy  in  the  parish — no  solitair^ 
was  less  acquainted  with  the  ways  of  the  woi'ld. 
What  I  knew  of  ancient  story  was  gathered 
from  Salmon's  and  Guthrie's  Geographical 
Grammars  ;  and  the  ideas  I  had  formed  of  mo- 
dern manners,  of  literature,  and  criticism,  I  got 
from  the  Spectator.  These,  with  Pope's  Works, 
some  Plays  of  Shakspeare,  Tull  and  Dickson  on 
Agriculture,  the  Pantheon,  Locke's  Essay  on 
the  Human  Understanding,  Stackhouse's  His 
tory  of  the  Bible,  Justice's  British  Gardener's 
Directory,  Boyle's  Lectures,  Allan  Ramsay's 
Works,  Taylor's  Scripture  Doctrine  of  Original 
Sin,  A  Select  Collection  of  English  Songs,  and 
Hervey's  Meditations,  had  formed  the  whole  of 
my  reading.  The  collection  of  Songs  was  my 
vade  mecum.  I  pored  over  them,  driving  my 
cart,  or  walking  to  labour,  song  by  song,  verse 
by  verse ;  carefully  noting  the  true  tender,  or 
sublime,  from  affectation  and  fustian.  I  am  con- 
vinced I  owe  to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic 
craft,  such  as  it  is. 

In  my  seventeenth  year,  to  give  my  manners 
a  brush,  I  went  to  a  country  dancing-school. 
My  father  had  an  unaccountable  antipathy 
against  these  meetings,  and  my  going  was,  what 
to  this  moment  I  repent,  in  opposition  to  hin 
wishes.  My  father,  as  I  said  before,  was  sub- 
ject to  strong  passions ;  from  that  instance  of 
disobedience  in  me,  he  took  a  sort  of  dislike  to 
me,  which,  I  believe,  was  one  cause  of  the  dissi- 
pation which  marked  my  succeeding  years.  I 
say  dissipation,  comparatively  with  the  strict- 
ness, and  sobriety,  and  regularity  of  Presby- 
terian country  life ;  for  though  the  will-o'-wisp 
meteors  of  thoughtless  whim  were  almost  the  sole 
lights  of  my  path,  yet  early  ingrained  piety  and 
virtue  kept  me  for  several  years  afterwards 
within  the  line  of  innocence.  The  proat.  mis- 
fortune of  my  life  was  to  want  an  aim.  I  had 
felt  early  some  stirrings  of  ambition,  but  they 
were  the  blind  gropings  of  Homer's  Cyclops 
round  the  walla  of  his  cave.  I  saw  my  father's 
situation  entailed  on  me  perpetual  labou» 
The  only  two  openings  by  which  I  could  enter 
the  temple  of  fortune  were  the  gate  of  nig- 
gardly economy,  or  the  path  of  little  chican- 


854 


GENERAL   GOERESPONDENCE 


ing  bargain-making.  The  first  is  so  contracted 
an  aperture  I  never  could  squeeze  myself  into 
it — the  last  I  always  hated — there  was  con- 
tamination in  the  very  entrance  !  Thus  aban- 
doned of  aim  or  view  in  life,  with  a  strong 
appetite  for  sociability,  as  well  from  native 
hilarity  as  from  a  pride  of  observation  and  re- 
mark ;  a  constitutional  melancholy  or  hypochon- 
di'iasm  that  made  me  fly  solitude ;  add  to  these 
incentives  to  social  life,  my  reputation  for  book- 
ish knowledge,  a  certain  wild  logical  talent, 
and  a  strength  of  thought,  something  like  the 
rudiments  of  good  sense ;  and  it  will  not  seem 
surprising  that  I  was  generally  a  welcome  guest 
where  I  visited,  or  any  great  wonder  that 
always,  where  two  or  three  met  together,  tjiere 
was  I  among  them.  But  far  beyond  all  other 
impulses  of  my  heart,  was  un  penchant  d,  V adora- 
ble moilie  du  genre  humain.  My  heart  was  com- 
pletely tinder,  and  was  eternally  lighted  up  by 
Borne  goddess  or  other ;  and,  as  in  every  other 
warfare  in  this  world,  my  fortune  was  various ; 
sometimes  I  was  received  with  favour,  and  some- 
times I  was  mortified  with  a  repulse.  At  the 
plough,  sc^he,  or  reap-hook,  I  feared  no  com- 
petitor, and  thus  I  set  absolute  want  at  defiance; 
.and  as  I  never  cared  farther  for  my  labours 
ithan  while  I  was  in  actual  exercise,  I  spent  the 
evenings  in  the  way  after  my  own  heart.  A 
country  lad  seldom  carries  on  a  love  adventure 
without  an  assisting  confidant.  I  possessed  a 
curiosity,  zeal,  and  intrepid  dexterity  that  re- 
. commended  me  as  a  proper  second  on  these 
•  occasions;  and  I  dare  say,  I  felt  as  much  plea- 
sure in  being  in  the  secret  of  half  the  loves  of 
the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  as  ever  did  statesman 
in  knowing  the  intrigues  of  half  the  courts  of 
Europe.  The  very  goose-feather  in  my  hand 
Beems  to  know  instinctively  the  well-worn  path  of 
my  imagination,  the  favourite  theme  of  my  song ; 
and  is  with  difficulty  restrained  from  giving  you 
a  couple  of  paragraphs  on  the  love-adventures 
of  my  compeers,  the  humble  inmates  of  the 
fjirm-house  and  cottage ;  but  the  grave  sons  of 
science,  ambition,  or  avarice  baptize  these 
things  by  the  name  of  follies.  To  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  labour  and  poverty  they  are  mat- 
ters of  the  most  serious  nature :  to  them  the 
ardent  hope,  the  stolen  interview,  the  tender 
farewell,  are  the  greatest  and  most  delicious 
parts  of  their  enjoyments. 

Another  circumstance  in  my  life  which  made 
■ome  alteration  in  my  mind  and  manners,  was, 


that  I  spent  my  nineteenth  summer  on  a  smug- 
gling coast,  a  good  distance  from  home,  at  a 
noted  school  to  learn  mensuration,  surveying, 
dialling,  &c.,  in  which  I  made  a  pretty  good 
progress.  But  I  made  a  greater  progress  in 
the  knowledge  of  mankind.  The  contraband 
trade  was  at  that  time  very  successful,  and  it 
sometimes  happened  to  me  to  fall  in  with  those 
who  carried  it  on.  Scenes  of  swaggering  riot 
and  roaring  dissipation  were,  till  this  time,  new 
to  me ;  but  I  was  no  enemy  to  social  life.  Here, 
though  I  learnt  to  fill  my  glass,  and  to  mix 
without  fear  in  a  drunken  squabble,  yet  I  went 
on  with  a  high  hand  with  my  geometry,  till  the 
Bun  entered  Virgo,  a  month  which  is  always  a 
carnival  in  my  bosom,  when  a  charming  fillette, 
who  lived  next  door  to  the  school,  overset  my 
trigonometry,  and  set  me  off  at  a  tangent  from 
the  spheres  of  my  studies.  I,  however,  struggled 
on  with  my  sines  and  co-sines  for  a  few  days 
more ;  but  stepping  into  the  garden  one  charm- 
ing noon  to  take  the  sun's  altitude,  there  I  met 
my  angel, 

"  Like  Proserpine  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  a  fairer  flower "i 

It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any  more 
good  at  school.  The  remaining  week  I  stayed  I 
did  nothing  but  craze  the  faculties  of  my  soul 
about  her,  or  steal  out  to  meet  her ;  and  the 
two  last  nights  of  my  stay  in  the  country,  had 
sleep  been  a  mortal  sin,  the  image  of  this  modest 
and  innocent  girl  had  kept  me  guiltless. 

I  returned  home  very  considerably  improved. 
My  reading  was  enlarged  with  the  very  import- 
ant addition  of  Thomson's  and  Shenstone's 
works ;  I  had  seen  human  nature  in  a  new 
phasis ;  and  I  engaged  several  of  my  schoolfel- 
lows to  keep  up  a  literary  correspondence  with 
me.  This  improved  me  in  composition.  I  had 
met  with  a  collection  of  letters  by  the  wits  of 
Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  I  pored  over  them 
most  devoutly.  I  kept  copies  of  any  of  my  own 
letters  that  pleased  me,  and  a  comparison  be- 
tween them  and  the  composition  of  most  of  my 
correspondents  flattered  my  vanity.  I  carried 
this  whim  so  far,  that  though  I  had  not  three- 
farthings'  worth  of  business  in  the  world,  yet 
almost  every  post  brought  me  as  many  letters 
as  if  I  had  been  a  broad  plodding  son  of  the 
day-book  and  ledger. 

My  life  flowed  on  much  in  the  same  course 

1  Paradise  Lost,  b.  iv 


OF   KOBEKT   BUKNS. 


355 


till,  my  twenty-third  year.  Vive  V amour,  et  vive 
la  bagatelle,  were  my  sole  principles  of  action. 
The  addition  of  two  more  authors  to  my  library 
gave  me  great  pleasure;  Sterne  and  Mackenzie 
—Tristram  Shandy  and  the  Man  of  Feeling  were 
my  bosom  favourites.  Poesy  was  still  a  darling 
walk  for  my  mind,  but  it  was  only  indulged  in 
according  to  the  humour  of  the  hour.  I  had 
usually  half  a  dozen  or  more  pieces  on  hand  ;  I 
took  up  one  or  other,  as  it  suited  the  momentary 
tone  of  the  mind,  and  dismissed  the  work  as  it 
bordered  on  fatigue.  My  passions,  when  once 
lighted  up,  raged  like  so  many  devils,  till  they 
got  vent  in  rhyme ;  and  then  the  conning  over 
my  verses,  like  a  spell,  soothed  all  into  quiet ! 
None  of  the  rhymes  of  those  days  are  in  print, 
except  "  Winter,  a  dirge,"  the  eldest  of  my 
printed  pieces ;  "The  Death  of  poor  Maillie," 
"John  Barleycorn,"  and  songs  first,  second,  and 
third.  Song  second  was  the  ebullition  of  that 
passion  which  ended  the  forementioned  school- 
business. 

My  twenty-third  year  was  to  me  an  import- 
ant cera.  Partly  through  whim,  and  partly 
that  I  wished  to  set  about  doing  something  in 
life,  I  joined  a  flax-dresser  in  a  neighbouring 
town  (Irvine)  to  learn  his  trade.  This  was  an 
unlucky  affair.  My  *  *  *  and  to  finish  the 
whole,  as  we  were  giving  a  welcome  carousal  to 
the  new  year,  the  shop  took  fire  and  burnt  to 
ashes,  and  I  was  left,  like  a  true  poet,  not  worth 
a  sixpence. 

I  was  obliged  to  give  up  this  scheme ;  the 
clouds  of  misfortune  were  gathering  thick  round 
my  father's  head ;  and,  what  was  worst  of  all, 
he  was  visibly  far  gone  in  a  consumption ;  and 
to  crown  my  distresses,  a  belle  fille,  whom  I 
adored,  and  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  meet 
me  in  the  field  of  matrimony,  jilted  me,  with 
peculiar  circumstances  of  mortification.  The 
finishing  evil  that  brought  up  the  rear  of  this 
infernal  file,  was  my  constitutional  melancholy 
being  increased  to  such  a  degree,  that  for  three 
months  I  was  in  a  state  of  mind  scarcely  to  be 
envied  by  the  hopeless  wretches  who  have  got 
their  mittimus — depart  from  me,  ye  cursed! 

From  this  adventure  I  learned  something  of  a 
town  life ;  but  the  principal  thing  which  gave 
my  mind  a  turn,  was  a  friendship  I  formed  wich 
a  young  fellow,  a  very  noble  character,  but  a 
hapless  son  of  misfortune.  He  was  the  son  of 
a  simple  mechanic  ;  but  a  great  man  in  the 
Neighbourhood  taking  bim  under  his  patronage, 


gave  him  a  genteel  education,  with  a  view  of 
bettering  his  situation  in  life.  The  patron 
dying  just  as  he  was  ready  to  launch  out  into 
the  world,  the  poor  fellow  in  despair  went  to 
sea ;  where,  after  a  variety  of  good  and  ill-for- 
tune, a  little  before  I  was  acqua'nted  with  him 
he  had  been  set  on  shore  by  an  American  pri- 
vateer, on  the  wild  coast  of  Connaught^  strip- 
ped of  everything.  I  cannot  quit  this  poor  fel- 
low's story  without  adding,  that  he  is  at  this 
time  master  of  a  large  West-Indiaman  belonging 
to  the  Thames. 

His  mind  was  fraught  with  independence, 
magnanimity,  and  every  manly  virtue.  I  loved 
and  admired  him  to  a  degree  of  enthusiasm,  and 
of  course  strove  to  imitate  him.  In  some  mea- 
sure I  succeeded;  I  had  pride  before,  but  he 
taught  it  to  flow  in  proper  channels.  His  know- 
ledge'of  the  world  was  vastly  superior  to  mine, 
and  I  was  all  attention  to  learn.  He  was  the 
only  man  I  ever  saw  who  was  a  greater  fool  than 
myself  where  woman  was  the  presiding  star  ; 
but  he  spoke  of  illicit  love  with  the  levity  of  a 
sailor,  which  hitherto  I  had  regarded  with  hor- 
ror. Here  his  friendship  did  me  a  mischief,  and 
the  consequence  was,  that  soon  after  I  resumed 
the  plough,  I  wrote  the  "Poet's  Welcome."' 
My  reading  only  increased  while  in  this  town 
by  two  stray  volumes  of  Pamela,  and  one  of 
Ferdinand  Count  Fathom,  which  gave  me  some 
idea  of  novels.  Rhyme,  except  some  religious 
pieces  that  are  in  print,  I  had  given  up  ;  but 
meeting  with  Fergusson's  Scottish  Poems,  I 
strung  anew  my  wildly-sounding  lyre  with  emu- 
lating vigour.  When  my  father  died,  his  all 
went  among  the  hell-hounds  that  growl  in  the 
kennel  of  justice ;  but  we  made  a  shift  to  col- 
lect a  little  money  in  the  family  amongst  us, 
with  which,  to  keep  us  together,  my  brother  and 
I  took  a  neighbouring  farm.  My  brother  want- 
ed my  hair-brained  imagination,  as  well  as  my 
social  and  amorous  madness  ;  but  in  good  sense, 
and  every  sober  qualification,  he  was  far  my  su- 
perior. 

I  entered  on  this  farm  with  a  full  resolution, 
"come,  go  to,  I  will  be  wise !"  I  read  farming 
books,  I  calculated  crops ;  I  attended  markets ; 
and  in  short,  in  spite  of  the  devil,  and  the  world, 
and  the  flesh,  I  believe  I  should  have  been  a 
wise  man ;  but  the  first  year,  from  unfortunately 
buying  bad  seed,  the  second  from  a  late  bar- 

»  "  Rob  the  Rhymer's  Welcome  to  his  Bastard  Chi'd  * 
—See  Poem  XXXIII. 


856 


GENERAL   COKEESPONDENCE 


vest,  we  lost  half  our  crops 
my  wisdom,  and  I  returned 


This  overset  all 
like  the  dog  to 
his  vomit,  and  the  sow  that  was  washed,  to  her 
wallowing  in  the  mire." 

I  now  began  to  be  known  in  the  neighbourhood 
as  a  maker  of  rhymes.  The  first  of  my  poetic 
ofiFspring  that  saw  the  light,  was  a  burlesque  la- 
mentation on  a  quarrel  between  two  reverend 
Calvinists,  both  of  them  dramatis  personce  in 
"Holy  Fair."  I  had  a  notion  myself  that 
the  piece  had  some  merit ;  but,  to  prevent 
the  worst,  I  gave  a  copy  of  it  to  a  friend, 
who  was  very  fond  of  such  things,  and  told  him 
that  I  could  not  guess  who  was  the  author  of  it, 
but  that  I  thought  it  pretty  clever.  With  a  cer- 
tain description  of  the  clergy,  as  well  as  laity,  it 
met  with  a  roar  of  applause.  *'  Holy  Willie's 
Prayer"  next  made  its  appearance,  and  alarmed 
the  kirk-session  so  much,  that  they  held  several 
meetings  to  look  over  their  spiritual  artillery,  if 
haply  any  of  it  might  be  pointed  against  pro- 
fane rhymers.  Unluckily  for  me,  my  wander- 
ings led  me  on  another  side,  within  point-blank 
shot  of  their  heaviest  metal.  This  is  the  unfor- 
tunate story  that  gave  rise  to  my  printed  poem, 
"The  Lament."  This  was  a  most  melancholy 
atfair,  which  I  cannot  yet  bear  to  reflect  on,  and 
had  very  nearly  given  me  one  or  two  of  the 
principal  qualifications  for  a  place  among  those 
who  have  lost  the  chart,  and  mistaken  the  reck- 
oning of  rationality.  I  gave  up  my  part  of 
the  farm  to  my  brother ;  in  truth  it  was  only 
nominally  mine  ;  and  made  what  little  prepara- 
tion was  in  my  power  for  Jamaica.  But,  before 
leaving  my  native  country  for  ever,  I  resolved 
to  publish,  my  poems.  I  weighed  my  produc- 
tions as  impartially  as  was  in  my  power ;  I 
thought  they  had  merit;  and  it  was  a  deli- 
cious idea  that  I  should  be  called  a  clever  fellow, 
even  though  it  should  never  reach  my  ears — a 
poor  negro-driver — or  perhaps  a  victim  to  that 
inhospitable  clime,  and  gone  to  the  world  of 
spirits  !  I  can  truly  say,  that  jsawwre  inconnu  as 
I  then  was,  I  had  pretty  nearly  as  high  an  idea 
of  myself  and  of  my  works  as  I  have  at  this 
mDmeut,  when  the  public  has  decided  in  their 
favour.  It  ever  was  my  opinion  that  the  mis- 
takes and  blunders,  both  in  a  rational  and  reli- 
gious point  of  view,  of  which  we  see  thousands 
daily  guilty,  are  owing  to  their  ignorance  of 
themselves. — To  know  myself  had  been  all  along 
my  constant  study.  I  weighed  myself  alone  ;  I 
balanced  myself  with  others  ;  I  watched  every 


means  of  information,  to  see  how  much  grounl 
I  occupied  as  a  man  and  as  a  poet ;  I  studied 
assiduously  Nature's  design  in  my  formation — 
where  the  lights  and  shades  in  my  character 
were  intended.  I  was  pretty  confident  my  poems 
would  meet  with  some  applause  ;  but,  at  the 
worst,  the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  would  deafen 
the  voice  of  censure,  and  the  novelty  of  West 
Indian  scenes  make  me  forget  neglect.  I  threw 
ofi"  six  hundred  copies,  of  which  I  had  got  sub- 
scriptions for  about  three  hundred  and  fifty. — 
My  vanity  was  highly  gratified  by  the  reception 
I  met  with  from  the  public ;  and  besides  I 
pocketed,  all  expenses  deducted,  nearly  twenty 
pounds.  This  sum  came  very  seasonably,  as  I 
was  thinking  of  indenting  myself,  for  want  of 
money  to  procure  my  passage.  As  soon  as  I 
was  master  of  nine  guineas,  the  price  of  waft- 
ing me  to  the  torrid  zone,  I  took  a  steerage  pas- 
sage in  the  first  ship  that  was  to  sail  from  the 
Clyde,  for 

"  Hungry  ruin  had  me  m  the  wind." 

I  had  been  for  some  days  skulking  from 
covert  to  covert,  under  all  the  terrors  of  a  jail; 
as  some  ill-advised  people  had  uncoupled  the 
merciless  pack  of  the  law  at  my  heels.  I  had 
taken  the  last  farewell  of  my  few  friends ;  my 
chest  was  on  the  road  to  Greenock ;  I  had  com- 
posed the  last  song  I  should  ever  measure  in 
Caledonia — "The  gloomy  night  is  gathering 
fast,"  when  a  letter  from  Dr.  Blacklock  to  a 
friend  of  mine,  overthrew  all  my  schemes,  by 
opening  new  prospects  to  my  poetic  ambition. 
The  doctor  belonged  to  a  set  of  critics  for  whose 
applause  I  had  not  dared  to  hope.  His  opinion, 
that  I  would  meet  with  encouragement  in 
Edinburgh  for  a  second  edition,  fired  me  so 
much,  that  away  I  posted  for  that  city,  without 
a  single  acquaintance,  or  a  single  letter  of  in- 
troduction. The  baneful  star  that  had  so  long 
shed  its  blasting  influence  in  my  zenith,  for  once 
made  a  revolution  to  the  nadir ;  and  a  kind 
Providence  placed  me  under  the  patronage 
of  one  of  the  noblest  of  men,  the  Earl  of  Glen- 
cairn.  Oublie-moi,  grand  Dieu,  si  jamais  Je 
Voublie  ! 

I  need  relate  no  farther.  At  Edinburgh  I 
was  in  a  new  world ;  I  mingled  among  many 
classes  of  men,  but  all  of  them  new  to  me,  and 
I  was  all  attention  to  "catch"  the  characters 
and  "the  manners  living  as  they  rise."  Whe- 
ther I  have  profited,  time  will  show. 

**•?.♦ 


1 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


357 


My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Miss  Wil- 
liams. Her  very  elegant  and  friendly  letter  I 
cannot  answer  at  present,  as  my  presence  is  re- 
quisite la  Edinburgh,  and  I  set  out  to-morrow. 

R.  B. 


LXXV. 

TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  ESQ., 

BEERTWELL    DUNSE. 

(This  characteristic  letter  was  first  published  by  Sir 
Harris  Nicolas;  others,  still  more  characteristic,  ad- 
dressed to  the  same  gentleman,  are  abroad  :  how  they 
•scaped  from  private  keeping  is  a  sort  of  a  riddle.] 

Edinburgh,  23rf  August,  1787. 

*'  As  I  gaed  up  to  Dunse 
To  warp  a  pickle  yarn, 
Robin,  silly  body. 
He  gat  me  wi'  buirn." 

From  henceforth,  my  dear  Sir,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  set  off  with  my  letters  like  the  period- 
ical writers,  viz.  prefix  a  kind  of  text,  quoted 
from  some  classic  of  undoubted  authority,  such 
as  the  author  of  the  immortal  piece,  of  which 
my  text  is  a-  part.  What  I  have  to  say  on  my 
text  is  exhausted  in  a  letter  which  I  wrote  you 
the  other  day,  before  I  had  the  pleasure  of  re- 
ceiving yours  from  Inverkeithing ;  and  sure 
never  was  anything  more  lucky,  as  I  have  but 
the  time  to  write  this,  that  Mr.  Nicol,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table,  takes  to  correct  a 
proof-sheet  of  a  thesis.  They  are  gabbling 
Latin  so  loud  that  I  cannot  hear  what  my  own 
soul  is  saying  in  my  own  skull,  so  I  must  just 
give  you  a  matter-of-fact  sentence  or  two,  and 
end,  if  time  permit,  with  a  verse  de  rei  genera- 
tione.  To-morrow  I  leave  Edinburgh  in  a 
chaise;  Nicol  thinks  it  more  comfortable  than 
horseback,  to  which  I  say,  Ainen ;  so  Jenny 
Geddes  goes  home  to  Ayrshire,  to  use  a  phrase 
»f  my  mother's,  wi'  her  finger  in  her  mouth. 

Now  for  a  modest  verse  of  classical  authority: 

The  cats  like  kitchen ; 

The  dogs  like  broo ; 
The  lasses  like  the  lads  weel, 

And  th'  auld  wives  too. 

CHORUS. 

And  we're  a'  noddin, 

Nid,  nid,  noddin, 
Mr  e  re  a'  noddin  fou  at  e'en. 


If  this  does  not  please  you,  let  me  hear  from 
you;  if  you  write  any  time  before  the  1st  of 
September,  direct  to  Inverness,  to  be  left  at  the 
post-office  till  called  for;  the  next  week  at 
Aberdeen,  the  next  at  Edinburgh. 

The  sheet  is  done,  and  I  shall  just  conclule 
with  assuring  you  that 

I  am,  and  ever  with  pride  shall  be. 
My  dear  Sir,  &c. 

R  B. 

Call  your  boy  what  you  think  proper,  only 
interject  Burns.  What  do  you  say  to  a  Scrip- 
ture name?  Zimri  Burns  Ainslie,  or  Archito- 
phel,  &c.,  look  your  Bible  for  these  two  heroes, 
if  you  do  this,  I  will  repay  the  compliment 


LXXVI. 


TO  MR.    ROBERT   MUIR. 

[No  Scotsman  will  ever  read,  without  emotion,  tha 
poet's  words  in  this  letter,  and  in  "  Scots  wha  hae  w< 
Wallace  bled,"  about  Bannockburn  and  its  glories.] 

Stirling,  26th  August,  1787. 
My  DEAR  Sir, 

I  INTENDED  to  havc  Written  you  from  Edin- 
burgh, and  now  write  you  from  Stirling  to  make 
an  excuse.  Here  am  I,  on  my  way  to  Inver- 
ness, with  a  truly  original,  but  very  worthy 
man,  a  Mr.  Nicol,  one  of  the  masters  of  the 
High-school,  in  Edinburgh.  I  left  Auld  Reekie 
yesterday  morning,  and  have  passed,  besides 
by-excursions,  Linlithgow,  Borrowstouness,  Fal- 
kirk, and  here  am  I  undoubtedly.  This  morn- 
ing I  knelt  at  the  tomb  of  Sir  John  the  Graham, 
the  gallant  friend  of  the  immortal  Wallace; 
and  two  hours  ago  I  said  a  fervent  prayer, 
for  Old  Caledonia,  over  the  hole  in  a  blue  whin- 
stone,  where  Robert  de  Bruce  fixed  his  royal 
standard  on  the  banks  of  Bannockburn ;  and  just 
now,  from  Stirling  Castle,  I  have  seen  by  the 
setting  sun  the  glorious  prospect  of  the  windings 
of  Forth  through  the  rich  carse  of  Stirling,  and 
skirting  the  equally  rich  carse  of  Falkirk.  The 
crops  are  very  strong,  but  so  very  late,  that 
there  is  no  harvest,  except  a  ridge  or  two  per- 
haps in  ten  miles,  all  the  way  I  have  travelle<i 
from  Edinburgh. 

I  left  Andrew  Bruce  and  family  all  well.  I 
will  be  at  least  three  weeks  in  making  my  tour, 
as  I  shall  return  by  the  coast,  and  have  manv 
people  to  call  for. 


858 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


My  best  compliments  to  Charles,  our  dear 
kinsman  and  fellow-saint ;  and  Messrs.  W.  and 
H,  Parkers.  I  hope  Hughoc  is  going  on  and 
prospering  with  God  and  Miss  M'Causlin. 

If  I  could  think  on  anything  sprightly,  I  should 
let  you  hear  every  other  post ;  but  a  dull,  mat- 
ter-of-fact business,  like  this  scrawl,  the  less 
and  seldomer  one  writes,  the  better. 

Among  other  matters-of-fact  I  shall  add  this, 
Miat  I  am  and  ever  shall  be, 
My  dear  Sir, 

Your  obliged, 

R.  B. 


LXXVII. 


TO   GAVIN   HAMILTON,   ESQ. 

[It  is  supposed  that  the  warmth  of  the  lover  came  in 
tliis  letter  to  the  aid  of  the  imagination  of  the  poet,  in  his 
account  of  Charlotte  Hamilton.] 

Stirling,  2Sth  August,  1787. 
My  deak  Sir, 
Here  am  I  on  my  way  to  Inverness.  I  have 
rambled  over  the  rich,  fertile  carses  of  Falkirk 
and  Sterling,  and  am  delighted  with  their  ap- 
pearance :  richly  waving  crops  of  wheat,  barley, 
&c.,  but  no  harvest  at  all  yet,  except,  in  one  or 
two  places,  an  old  wife's  ridge.  Yesterday 
morning  I  rode  from  this  town  up  the  meander- 
ing Devon's  banks,  to  pay  my  respects  to  some 
Ayrshire  folks  at  Harvieston.  After  breakfast, 
we  made  a  party  to  go  and  see  the  famous  Cau- 
dron-linn,  a  remarkable  cascade  in  the  Devon, 
about  five  miles  above  Harvieston ;  and  after 
spending  one  of  the  most  pleasant  days  I  ever 
had  in  my  life,  I  returned  to  Stirling  in  the 
evening.  They  are  a  family,  Sir,  though  I  had 
not  had  any  prior  tie ;  though  they  had  not 
been  the  brother  and  sisters  of  a  certain  gene- 
rous friend  of  mine,  I  would  never  forget  them. 
I  am  told  you  have  not  seen  them  these  several 
years,  so  you  can  have  very  little  idea  of  what 
these  young  folks  are  now.  Your  brother  is  as 
tall  as  you  are,  but  slender  rather  than  other- 
wise ;  and  I  have  the  satisfaction  to  inform  you 
that  he  is  getting  the  better  of  those  consump- 
tive sjnnptoms  which  I  suppose  you  know  were 
threatening  him.  His  make,  and  particularly 
his  manner,  resemble  you,  but  he  will  still  have 
a  finer  face.  (I  pvit  in  the  word  still  to  please 
Mrs.  Hamilton.)  Good  sense,  modesty,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  just  idea  of  that  respect  that 


man  owes  to  man,  and  has  a  right  in  his  turn 
to  exact,  are  striking  features  in  his  charac- 
ter ;  and,  what  with  me  is  the  Alpha  and  th« 
Omega,  he  has  a  heart  that  might  adorn  the 
breast  of  a  poet !  Grace  has  a  good  figure,  and 
the  look  of  health  and  cheerfulness,  but  no- 
thing else  remarkable  in  her  person.  I  scarcely 
ever  saw  so  striking  a  likeness  as  is  between 
her  and  your  little  Beenie ;  the  mouth  and  chin 
particularly.  She  is  reserved  at  first ;  but  as 
we  grew  better  acquainted,  I  was  delighted  with 
the  native  frankness  of  her  manner,  and  the 
sterling  sense  of  her  observation.  Of  Charlotte 
I  cannot  speak  in  common  terms  of  admiration : 
she  is  not  only  beautiful  but  lovely.  Her  form 
is  elegant ;  her  features  not  regular,  but  they 
have  the  smile  of  sweetness  and  the  settled 
complacency  of  good  nature  in  the  highest 
degree ;  and  her  complexion,  now  that  she  has 
happily  recovered  her  wonted  health,  is  equal 
to  Miss  Burnet's.  After  the  exercise  of  our 
riding  to  the  Falls,  Charlotte  was  exactly  Dr. 
Donne's  mistress:  — 

"  Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 

Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought, 
That  one  would  almost  say  her  body  thought." 

Her  eyes  are  fascinating;  at  once  expressiye 
of  good  sense,  tenderness,  and  a  noble  mind, 

I  do  not  give  you  all  this  account,  my  good 
Sir,  to  flatter  you.  I  mean  it  to  reproach  you. 
Such  relations  the  first  peer  in  the  realm  might 
own  with  pride  ;  then  why  do  you  not  keep  up 
more  correspondence  with  these  so  amiable 
young  folks  ?  I  had  a  thousand  questions  to 
answer  about  you.  I  had  to  describe  the  little 
ones  with  the  minuteness  of  anatomy.  They 
were  highly  delighted  when  I  told  them  that 
John  was  so  good  a  boy,  and  so  fine  a  scholar, 
and  that  Willie  was  going  on  still  very  pretty  ; 
but  I  have  it  in  commission  to  tell  her  from 
them  that  beauty  is  a  poor  silly  bauble  without 
she  be  good.  Miss  Chalmers  I  had  left  in 
Edinburgh,  but  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
Mrs.  Chalmers,  only  Lady  Mackenzie  being 
rather  a  little  alarmingly  ill  of  a  sore  throat 
somewhat  marred  our  enjoyment. 

I  shall  not  be  in  Ayrshire  for  four  weeks. 
My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton, Miss  Kennedy,  and  Doctor  Mackenzie. 
I  shall  probably  write  him  from  some  stage  oi 

other. 

I  am  ever,  Sir, 

Yours  most  gratefully, 

K.  B 


OF  KOBERT   BURNS. 


35^ 


LXXVIII. 
TO   MR.   WALKER, 

^ BLAIR    OF    ATHOLE. 

tProfessor  Walker  was  a  native  of  Ayrshire,  and  an 
tccumpllshfld  scholar ;  he  saw  Burns  often  in  Edinburgh  ; 
he  eaw  him  a*  the  Earl  of  Athoi's  on  the  Bruar ;  he  visited 
hire  '.30  a':  Dumfries;  and  after  the  copyright  of  Currie's 
•ditioi  -f  >:.e  poet's  works  expired,  he  wrote,  with  much 
taste  And  lesllng,  his  life  anew,  and  edited  his  works — 
v/hat  prissed  under  his  own  observation  he  related  with 
truth  and  ease.] 

"  Inverness,  6th  September,  1787. 

My  dear  Sir, 

I  HAVE  just  time  to  write  the  foregoing,'  and 
to  tell  you  that  it  was  (at  least  most  part  of  it) 
the  effusion  of  an  half-hour  I  spent  at  Bruar. 
I  do  not  mean  it  was  extempore,  for  I  have 
endeavoured  to  brush  it  up  as  well  as  Mr. 
Nicol's  chat  and  the  jogging  of  the  chaise  would 
allow.  It  eases  my  heart  a  good  deal,  as 
rhyme  is  the  coin  with  which  a  poet  pays  his 
debts  of  honour  or  gratitude.  What  I  owe  to 
the  noble  family  of  Athol,  of  the  firi^t  kind, 
1  shall  ever  proudly  boast ;  what  I  owe  of  the 
last,  so  help  me  God  in  my  hour  of  need  !  I 
shall  never  forget. 

The  "  little  angel-band  !"  I  declare  I  prayed 
for  them  very  sincerely  to-day  at  the  Fall  of 
Fyers.  I  shall  never  forget  the  fine  family- 
piece  I  saw  at  Blair;  the  amiable,  the  truly 
noble  duchess,  with  her  smiling  little  seraph  in 
her  lap,  at  the  head  of  the  table ;  the  lovely 
"olive  plants,"  as  the  Hebrew  bard  finely  says» 
round  the  happy  mother :  the  beautiful  Mrs. 
G — ;  the  lovely  sweet  Miss  C,  &c.  I  wish  I 
had  the  powers  of  Guido  to  do  them  justice ! 
My  Lord  Duke's  kind  hospitality  —  markedly 
kind  indeed.  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintray's  charms 
of  conversation — Sir  W.  Murray's  friendship. 
In  short,  the  recollection  of  all  that  polite, 
agreeable  company  raises  an  honest  glow  in  my 
bosom. 


LXXIX. 

TO   MR.    GILBERT   BURNS. 

[The  letters  of  Robert  to  Gilbert  are  neither  many  nor 
important:  the  hitter  was  a  culm,  considerate,  sensible 
man,  with  nothin<r  poetic  in  his  composition:  he  died  | 
lately;  much  and  widely  respected.]  I 

1  The  Humble  Petition  of  Bruar- water  i 


Edinburgh,  17th  September,  1787. 
My  t)ear  Brother, 

I  arrived  here  safe  yesterday  evening,  aftei 
a  tour  of  twenty-two  days,  and  travelling  neal 
six  hundred  miles,  windings  included.  My 
farthest  stretch  was  about  ten  miles  beyond 
Inverness.  I  went  through  the  heart  of  the 
Highlands  by  CrieflF,  Taymouth,  the  famous  scut 
of  Lord  Breadalbane,  down  the  Tay,  among 
cascades  and  druidical  circles  of  stones,  to 
Dunkeld,  a  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Athol ;  thence 
across  the  Tay,  and  up  one  of  his  tributary 
streams  to  Blair  of  Athole,  another  of  the 
duke's  seats,  where  I  had  the  honour  of  spend- 
ing nearly  two  days  with  his  grace  and  family ; 
thence  many  miles  through  a  wild  country, 
among  cliffs  gray  with  eternal  snows  and  gloomy 
savage  glens,  till  I  crossed  Spey  and  went  down 
the  stream  through  Strathspey,  so  famous  in 
Scottish  music  ;  Badenoch,  &c.,  till  I  reached 
Grant  Castle,  where  I  spent  half  a  day  with 
Sir  James  Grant  and  family  ;  and  then  crossed 
the  country  for  Fort  George,  but  called  by  the 
way  at  Cawdor,  the  ancient  seat  of  Macbeth  ; 
there  I  saw  the  identical  bed,  in  which  tradition 
says  king  Duncan  was  murdered :  lastly,  from 
Fort  George  to  Inverness. 

I  returned  by  the  coast,  through  Nairn,  Forres, 
and  so  on,  to  Aberdeen,  thence  to  Stonehive, 
where  James  Burness,  from  Montrose,  met  me 
by  appointment.  I  spent  two  days  among  our 
relations,  and  found  our  aunts,  Jean  and  Isabel, 
still  alive,  and  hale  old  women.  John  Cairn, 
though  born  the  same  year  with  our  father, 
walks  as  vigorously  as  I  can :  they  have  had 
several  letters  from  his  son  in  New  York.  Wil- 
liam Brand  is  likewise  a  stout  old  fellow ;  but 
further  particulars  I  delay  till  I  see  you,  which 
will  be  in  two  or  three  weeks.  The  rest  of  my 
stages  are  not  worth  rehearsing-  warm  as  I 
was  from  Ossian's  country,  where  I  had  seen 
his  very  grave,  what  cared  I  for  fishing-towns 
or  fertile  carses  ?  I  slept  at  the  famous  Bi-odie 
of  Brodie's  one  night,  and  dined  at  Gordon  Cas- 
tle next  day,  with  the  duke,  duchess  and  fami- 
ly. I  am  thinking  to  cause  my  old  mare  to  meet 
me,  by  means  of  John  Ronald,  at  Glasgow  ;  but 
you  shall  hear  farther  from  me  before  I  leave 
Edinburgh.  My  duty  and  many  compliments 
from  the  north  to  my  mother  ;  and  my  brotherly 
compliments  to  the  rest.  I  have  been  trying  foi 
a  berth  for  William,  but  am  not  likely  to  be  sue 
cessful.     Farewell.  R.  B. 


860 


GENERAL   C01111E8P0NDENCE 


LXXX. 

TO   MISS   MARGARET    CHALMERS. 

(now    MRS.   HAY.) 

[To  Margaret  Chalmers,  the  youngest  daughter  of 
Jnnios  Chalmers,  Esq.,  of  Fingland,  it  is  said  tliat  Burns 
poiifiiled  his  affoctiou  to  Charlotte  Hamilton:  his  letters 
to  Miss  Chalmers,  like  those  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  are  dis- 
tinguished for  their  good  sense  and  delicacy  as  well  as 
freedom.] 

Sept.  26,  1787. 

I  SEND  Charlotte  the  first  number  of  the 
songs  ;  I  would  not  wait  for  the  second  number; 

flate  delays  in  little  marks  of  friendship,  as  I 
natc  dissimulation  in  the  language  of  the  heart. 
I  am  determined  to  pay  Charlotte  a  poetic  com- 
pliment, if  I  could  hit  on  some  glorious  old 
Scotch  air,  in  number  second.'  You  will  see  a 
small  attempt  on  a  shred  of  paper  in  the  book : 
but  though  Dr.  Blacklock  commended  it  very 
highly,  I  am  not  just  satisfied  with  it  myself.  I 
intend  to  make  it  a  description  of  some  kind : 
the  whining  cant  of  love,  except  in  real  pas- 
sion, and  by  a  masterly  hand,  is  to  me  as  insuf- 
ferable as  the  preaching  cant  of  old  Father 
Smeaton,  whig-minister  at  Kilmaurs.  Darts, 
flames,  cupids,  loves,  graces,  and  all  that  far- 
rago, are  just  a  Mauchline  *  *  *  *  a  senseless 
rabble. 

I  got  an  excellent  poetic  epistle  yesternight 
from  the  old,  venerable  author  of  "Tullochgo- 
rum,"  "  John  of  Badenyon,"  &c.  I  suppose  you 
know  he  is  a  clergyman.  It  is  by  far  the  finest 
poetic  compliment  I  ever  got.  I  will  send  you 
a  cop3  of  it. 

I  go  on  Thursday  or  Friday  to  Dumfries,  to 
wait  on  Mr.  Miller  about  his  farms. — Do  tell 
that  to  Lady  Mackenzie,  that  she  may  give  me 
credit  for  a  little  wisdom.  "1  Wisdom  dwell 
with  Prudence."  What  a  blessed  fire-side ! 
How  happy  should  I  be  to  pass  a  winter  evening 
under  their  venerable  roof!  and  smoke  a  pipe 
of  tobacco,  or  drink  water-gruel  with  them ! 
What  solemn,  lengthened,  laughter-quashing 
gravity  of  phiz  !  AVhat  sage  remarks  on  the 
good-for-nothing  sons  and  daughters  of  indis- 
cretion and  folly  !  And  what  frugal  lessons,  as 
we  straitened  the  fire-side  circle,  on  the  uses  of 
the  poker  and  tongs  ! 

Miss  N.  is  very  well,  and  begs  to  be  remem- 
bered in  the  old  way  to  you.  I  used  all  my  elo- 
quence,   all   the   persuasive   flourishes    of  the 

1  Of  the  Scots  Musical  Museum 


hand,  and  heart-melting  modulation  of  periods 
in  my  power,  to  urge  her  out  to  Harvieston,  but 
all  in  vain.  My  rhetoric  seems  quite  to  have  lost 
its  eff'ect  on  the  lovely  half  of  mankind.  I  have 
seen  the  day — but  that  is  a  •'  tale  of  other  years." . 
— In  my  conscience  I  believe  that  my  heart  has 
been  so  oft  on  fire  that  it  is  absolutely  vitrified. 
I  look  on  the  sex  with  something  like  the  admi< 
ration  with  which  I  regard  the  starry  sky  in  a 
frosty  December  night.  I  admire  the  beauty 
of  the  Creator's  workmanship ;  I  am  charmed 
with  the  wild  but  graceful  eccentricity  of  their 
motions,  and — wish  them  good  night.  I  mean 
this  with  respect  to  a  certain  passion  dont  fat 
eu  Vhonneur  d^etre  un  miserable  esclave :  as  for 
friendship,  you  and  Charlotte  have  given  me 
pleasure,  permanent  pleasure,  ♦'  which  the  world 
cannot  give,  nor  take  away,"  I  hope  ;  and  which 
will  outlast  the  heavens  and  the  earth. 

R.  B. 


LXXXI. 

TO   MISS   MARGARET   CHALMERS. 

[That  fine  song,  <'  The  Banks  of  the  Devon,"  dedicated 
to  the  charms  of  Charlotte  Hamilton,  was  enclosed  in  the 
following  letter.] 

Without  date. 

I  HAVE  been  at  Dumfries,  and  at  one  visit  more 
shall  be  decided  about  a  farm  in  that  country. 
I  am  rather  hopeless  in  it ;  but  as  my  brother 
is  an  excellent  farmer,  and  is,  besides,  an  ex- 
ceedingly prudent,  sober  man  (qualities  which 
are  only  a  younger  brother's  fortune  in  our 
family),  I  am  determined,  if  my  Dumfries  bu- 
siness fail  me,  to  return  into  partnership  with 
him,  and  at  our  leisure  take  another  farm  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

I  assure  you  I  look  for  high  compliments  from 
you  and  Charlotte  on  this  very  sage  instance  of 
my  unfathomable,  incomprehensible  wisdom. 
Talking  of  Charlotte,  I  must  tell  her  that  I  have, 
to  the  best  of  my  power,  paid  her  a  poetic  com- 
pliment, now  completed.  The  air  is  admirable  : 
true  old  Highland.  It  was  the  tune  of  a  Gaelic 
song,  which  an  Inverness  lady  sung  me  when  I 
was  there  ;  and  I  was  so  charmed  with  it  that  I 
begged  her  to  write  me  a  set  of  it  from  her  sing- 
ing; for  it  had  never  been  set  before.  I  am 
fixed  that  it  shall  go  in  Johnson's  next  number ; 
so  Charlotte  and  you  need  not  spend  your  pre- 
cious time  in  contradicting  me.  I  won't  saj^  the 
poetry  is  first-rate  ;  though  I  am  convinced  it  is 


OF  ROBERT   RURNS. 


361 


yery  well ;  and,  what  is  not  always  the  case  with 
compliments  to  ladies,  it  is  not  only  sincere. 
Hut  just.  R.  B. 


LXXXII. 
TO  JAMES  HOY,   ESQ. 

GORDON    CASTLE. 

fJames  Hoy,  librarian  of  Gordon  Castle,  was,  it  is 
said,  tlie  gentleman  whom  his  grace  of  Gordon  sent  with 
a  message  inviting  in  vain  that  "obstinate  son  of  Latin 
prose,"  Nicol,  to  stop  and  enjoy  himself.] 


Sir, 


Edinburgh,  2,0th  October,  1787. 


I  WILL  defend  my  conduct  in  giving  you  this 
trouble,  on  the  best  of  Christian  principles — 
**  Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto 
you,  do  ye  even  so  unto  them." — I  shall  cer- 
tainly, among  my  legacies,  leave  my  latest  curse 
to  that  unlucky  predicament  which  hurried — 
tore  me  away  from  Castle  Gordon.  May  that 
obstinate  son  of  Latin  prose  [Nicol]  be  curst  to 
Scotch  mile  periods,  and  damned  to  seven  league 
paragraphs;  while  Declension  and  Conjugation, 
Gender,  Number,  and  Time,  under  the  ragged 
banners  of  Dissonance  and  Disarrangement,  eter- 
nally rank  against  him  in  hostile  array. 

Allow  me,  Sir,  to  strengthen  the  small  claim  I 
have  to  your  acquaintance,  by  the  following  re- 
quest. An  engraver,  James  Johnson,  in  Edin- 
burgh, has,  not  from  mercenary  views,  but  from 
an  honest,  Scotch  enthusiasm,  set  about  collect- 
ing all  our  native  songs  and  setting  them  to 
music ;  particularly  those  that  have  never  been 
Bet  before.  Clarke,  the  well  known  musician, 
presides  over  the  musical  arrangement,  and  Drs. 
Beattie  and  Blacklock,  Mr.  Tytler,  of  Wood- 
houselee,  and  your  humble  servant  to  the  utmost 
of  his  small  power,  assist  in  collecting  the  old 
poetry,  or  sometimes  for  a  fine  air  make  a  stanza, 
when  it  has  no  words.  The  brats,  too  tedious 
to  mention,  claim  a  parental  pang  from  my  bard- 
Bhip.  I  suf  ;  ose  it  will  appear  in  Johnson's  se- 
cond number — the  first  was  published  before  my 
acquaintance  with  him.  My  request  is — "  Cauld 
Kail  in  Aberdeen,"  is  one  intended  for  this 
number,  and  I  beg  a  copy  of  his  Grace  of  Gor- 
don's words  to  it,  which  you  were  so  kind  as  to 
repeat  to  me.  You  may  be  sure  we  won't  pre- 
fix the  author's  name,  except  you  like,  though  I 
look  on  it  as  no  small  merit  to  this  work  that  the 
names  of  many  of  the  authors  of  our  old  Scotch 
songs,  names  almoss*^  forgotten,  will  be  inserted. 


I  do  not  well  know  where  to  write  to  you — I 
rather  write  at  you  ;  but  if  you  will  be  so  oblig- 
ing, immediately  on  receipt  of  this,  as  to  write 
me  a  few  lines,  I  shall  perhaps  pay  you  in  kind, 
though  not  in  quality.  Johnson's  terms  are : — 
each  number  a  handsome  pocket  volume,  to  con- 
sist at  least  of  a  hundred  Scotch  songs,  with 
basses  for  the  harpsichord,  &c.  The  price  to 
subscribers  5s. ;  to  non-subscribers  6s.  He  will 
have  three  numbers  I  conjecture. 

My  direction  for  two  or  three  weeks  will  be  at 
Mr.  William  Cruikshank's,  St.  James's-square, 
New-town,  Edinburgh. 

I  am. 

Sir, 
Your's  to  command, 

R.  B. 


LXXXIII. 


TO  REV.   JOHN   SKINNER. 

[The  songs  of  "  Tullochgorum,"  and  <'  John  of  Baden- 
yon,"  have  made  the  name  of  Skinner  dear  to  all  lovers 
of  Scottish  verse  :  he  was  a  man  cheerful  and  pious,  nor 
did  the  family  talent  expire  with  him:  his  son  became 
Bishop  of  Aberdeen.] 

Edinburgh,  October  25,  1787. 
Reverend  and  Venerable  Sir, 

Accept,  in  plain  dull  prose,  my  most  sincere 
thanks  for  the  best  poetical  compliment  I  ever 
received.  I  assure  you.  Sir,  as  a  poet,  you 
have  conjured  up  an  airy  demon  of  vanity  in 
my  fancy,  which  the  best  abilities  in  your  other 
capacity  would  be  ill  able  to  lay.  I  regret,  and 
while  I  live  I  shall  regret,  that  when  I  was  in 
the  north,  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of  paying  a 
younger  brother's  dutiful  respect  to  the  autho? 
of  the  best  Scotch  song  ever  Scotland  saw — 
"  Tullochgorum's  my  delight !"  The  world  may 
think  slightingly  of  the  craft  of  song-making, 
if  they  please,  but,  as  Job  says — "Oh!  that 
mine  adversary  had  written  a  book  !" — let  them 
try.  There  is  a  certain  something  in  the  old 
Scotch  songs,  a  wild  happiness  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression, which  peculiarly  marks  them,  not  only 
from  English  songs,  but  also  from  the  modern 
efforts  of  song- Wrights  in  our  native  manner  and 
language.  The  only  remains  of  this  enchantment, 
these  spells  of  the  imagination,  rests  with  you. 
Our  true  brother,  Ross  of  Lochlee,  was  like- 
wise "  owre  cannie"  —  a  "wild  warlock"- 
but  now  he  sings  among  the  "  sons  of  the  morn- 
ing." 

I  have  often  wished,  and  will  certainly  endea- 


362 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


vonr  to  form  a  kind  of  common  acquaintance 
among  all  the  genuine  sons  of  Caledonian  song. 
The  world,  busy  in  low  prosaic  pursuits,  may 
overlook  most  of  us;  but  "reverence  thyself." 
The  world  is  not  our  peers,  so  we  challenge  the 
jury.  We  can  lash  that  world,  and  find  our- 
selves a  very  great  source  of  amusement  and 
happiness  independent  of  that  world. 

There  is  a  work  going  on  in  Edinburgh,  just 
now,  which  claims  your  best  assistance.  An 
engraver  in  this  town  has  set  about  collecting 
and  publishing  all  the  Scotch  songs,  with  the 
music,  that  can  be  found.  Songs  in  the  English 
language,  if  by  Scotchmen,  are  admitted,  but 
the  music  must  all  be  Scotch.  Drs.  Beattie  and 
Blacklock  are  lending  a  hand,  and  the  first  mu- 
sician in  town  presides  over  that  department. 
I  have  been  absolutely  crazed  about  it,  collect- 
ing old  stanzas,  and  every  information  respect- 
ing their  origin,  authors,  &c.  &c.  This  last  is 
but  a  very  fragment  business  ;  but  at  the  end  of 
his  second  number — the  first  is  already  published 
— a  small  account  will  be  given  of  the  authors, 
particularly  to  preserve  those  of  latter  times. 
Your  three  songs,  "  Tullochgorum,"  "John  of 
Badenyon,"  and  "  Ewie  wi'  the  crookit  horn," 
go  in  this  second  number.  I  was  determined, 
before  I  got  your  letter,  to  write  you,  begging 
that  you  would  let  me  know  where  the  editions 
of  these  pieces  may  be  found,  as  you  would  wish 
them  to  continue  in  future  times :  and  if  you 
would  be  so  kind  to  this  undertaking  as  send 
any  songs,  of  your  own  or  others,  that  you  would 
think  proper  to  publish,  your  name  will  be  in- 
serted among  the  other  authors, — "Nill  ye,  will 
ye."  One  half  of  Scotland  already  give  your 
songs  to  other  authors.  Paper  is  done.  I  beg 
to  hear  from  you ;  the  sooner  the  better,  as  I 
leave  Edinburgh  in  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks. — 
I  am,      . 

With  the  warmest  sincerity,  Sir, 

Your  obliged  humble  servant, — E..  B. 


LXXXIV. 


TO  JAMES   HOY,    ESQ. 

AT    GORDON    CASTLE,    FOCHABERS. 

[In  singleness  of  heart  and  simplicity  of  manners  James 
Hoy  is  s:iid,  by  one  who  kn«,v  him  well,  to  have  rivalled 
Dominie  Sampson  :  his  love  of  learning  and  his  Bcom  of 
wea.th  are  still  remembered  to  his  honour.] 


Edinburgh,  6lh  Novtft*Ur,  ..787. 
Dear  Sir, 

I  WOULD  have  wrote  you  immediately  on  re- 
ceipt of  your  kind  letter,  but  a  mixed  impulse 
of  gratitude  and  esteem  whispered  me  that  I 
ought  to  send  you  something  by  way  of  return. 
When  a  poet  owes  anything,  particularly  when 
he  is  indebted  for  good  offices,  the  payment  that 
usually  recurs  to  him — the  only  coin  indeed  in 
which  he  probably  is  conversant — is  rhyme. 
Johnson  sends  the  books  by  the  fly,  as  directed, 
and  begs  me  to  enclose  his  most  grateful  thanks: 
my  return  I  intended  should  have  been  one  or 
two  poetic  bagatelles  which  the  world  have  not 
seen,  or,  perhaps,  for  obvious  reasons,  cannot 
see.  These  I  shall  send  you  before  I  leave 
Edinburgh.  They  may  make  you  laugh  a  little, 
which,  on  the  whole,  is  no  bad  way  of  spending 
one's  precious  hours  and  still  more  precious 
breath:  at  any  rate,  they  will  be,  though  a 
small,  yet  a  very  sincere  mark  of  my  respectful 
esteem  for  a  gentleman  whose  further  acquaint- 
ance I  should  look  upon  as  a  peculiar  obliga- 
tion. 

The  duke's  song,  independent  totally  of  his 
dukeship,  chai-ms  me.  There  is  I  know  not 
what  of  wild  happiness  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion peculiarly  beautiful  in  the  old  Scottish  song 
style,  of  which  his  Grace,  old  venerable  Skinner, 
the  author  of  "  Tullochgorum,"  &c.,  and  the  late 
Ross,  at  Lochlee,  of  true  Scottish  poetic  memory, 
are  the  only  modern  instances  that  I  recollect, 
since  Ramsay  with  his  contemporaries,  and  poor 
Bob  Fergusson,  went  to  the  world  of  deathless 
existence  and  truly  immortal  song.  The  mob 
of  mankind,  that  many -headed  beast,  would 
laugh  at  so  serious  a  speech  about  an  old  song ; 
but  as  Job  says,  "0  that  mine  adversary  had 
written  i  book !"  •Those  who  think  that  com- 
posing a  Scotch  song  is  a  trifling  business — let 
them  try. 

I  wish  my  Lord  Duke  would  pay  a  proper  at- 
tention to  the  Christian  admonition — "  Hide  net 
your  candle  under  a  bushel,"  but  "let  your 
light  shine  before  men."  I  could  name  half  a 
dozen  dukes  that  I  guess  are  a  devilish  deal 
worse  employed:  nay,  I  question  if  there  are 
half  a  dozen  better  :  perhaps  there  are  not  half 
that  scanty  number  whom  Heaven  has  favoured 
with  t'ae  tuneful,  happy,  and,  I  will  say,  glorioug 

gift. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  obliged  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS, 


833 


LXXXV. 
T(x  MR.   ROBERT  AINSLIE, 

EDINBURGH. 

^  '  I  set  you  down,"  says  Burns,  elsewhere,  to  Ainslie, 
"as  the  staff  of  my  old  age,  when  all  my  other  friends, 
after  a  decej;',  show  of  pity,  will  have  forgot  rae."] 

Edinburgh^  Sunday  Morning^ 
Nov.  23,  1787. 

I  BEO,  my  dear  Sir,  you  would  not  make  any 
appointment  to  take  us  to  Mr.  Ainslie's  to-night. 
On  looking  over  my  engagements,  constitution, 
present  state  of  my  health,  some  little  vexatious 
soul  concerns,  «&c.,  I  find  I  can't  sup  abroad  to- 
night. I  shall  be  in  to-day  till  one  o'clock  if 
you  have  a  leisure  hour. 

You  will  think  it  romantic  when  I  tell  you, 
that  I  find  the  idea  of  your  friendship  almost 
necessary  to  my  existence. — You  assume  a  pro- 
per length  of  face  in  my  bitter  hours  of  blue- 
devilism,  and  you  laugh  fully  up  to  my  highest 
wishes  at  my  good  things. — I  don't  know  upon 
the  whole,  if  you  are  one  of  the  first  fellows  in 
God's  world,  but  you  are  so  to  me.  I  tell  you 
this  just  now  in  the  conviction  that  some  in- 
equalities in  my  temper  and  manner  may  per- 
haps sometimes  make  you  suspect  that  I  am  not 
BO  warmly  as  I  ought  to  be  your  friend. 

R.  B. 


LXXXVI. 


TO   THE  EARL  OF   GLENCAIRN. 

[The  views  of  Burns  were  always  humble :  he  regarded 
a  place  in  the  excise  as  a  thing  worthy  of  paying  court 
for,  both  in  verse  and  prose.] 

Edinburgh,  1787. 
My  Lord, 
I  KNOW  your  lordship  will  disapprove  of  my 
ideas  in  a  request  I  am  going  to  make  to  you ; 
but  I  have  weighed,  long  and  seriously  weighed, 
my  situation,  my  hopes  and  turn  of  mind,  and 
am  fully  fixed  to  my  scheme  if  I  can  possibly 
effectuate  it  I  wish  to  get  into  the  Excise  ;  I 
am  told  that  your  lordship's  interest  will  easily 
procure  me  the  grant  from  the  commissioners ; 
and  your  lordship's  patronage  iind  goodness, 
which  have  already  rescued  me  from  obscurity, 
wretchedness,  and  exile,  embolden  me  to  ask 
that  interest.  You  have  likewise  put  it  in  my 
power  to  save  the  little  tie  of  home  that  shel- 
tered an  aged  mother,  two  brothers,  and  three 


sisters  from  de'^truction.     There,  my  lord,  you 
have  bound  me  over  to  the  highest  gratitude. 

My  brother's  farm  is  but  a  wretched  lease, 
but  I  think  he  will  probably  weather  out  the  re- 
maining seven  years  of  it;  and  after  the  assist- 
ance which  I  have  given  and  will  give  him,  to 
keep  the  family  together,  I  think,  by  my  guess, 
I  shall  have  rather  better  than  two  hundred 
pounds,  and  instead  of  seeking,  what  is  almost 
impossible  at  present  to  find,  a  farm  that  I  can 
certainly  live  by,  with  so  small  a  stock,  I  shall 
lodge  this  sum  in  a  banking-house,  a  sacred  de- 
posit, expecting  only  the  calls  of  uncommon 
distress  or  necessitous  old  age. 

These,  my  lord,  are  my  views :  I  have  resolved 
from  the  maturest  deliberation ;  and  now  I  am 
fixed,  I  shall  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  carry 
my  resolve  into  execution.  Your  lordship's  pa- 
tronage is  the  strength  of  my  hopes ;  nor  have 
I  yet  applied  to  anybody  else.  Indeed  my 
heart  sinks  within  me  at  the  idea  of  applying 
to  any  other  of  the  great  who  have  honoured 
me  with  their  countenance.  I  am  ill  qualified 
to  dog  the  heels  of  greatness  with  the  imperti- 
nence of  solicitation,  and  tremble  nearly  as 
much  at  the  thought  of  the  cold  promise  aa 
the  cold  denial ;  but  to  your  lordship  I  have 
not  only  the  honour,  the  comfort,  but  the  plea- 
sure of  being 

Your  lordship's  much  obliged 
And  deeply  indebted  humble  servant, 
R.  B. 


LXXXVn. 


TO  JAMES   DALRYMPLE,   ESQ., 

ORANGEFIELD. 

[James  Dalrj-mple,  Esq.,  of  Orangefield,  was  a  gentio 
man  of  birth  and  poetic  tastes — he  interested  himself  i^ 
the  fortunes  of  Burns.] 

Edinburgh,  1787. 
Dear  Sir, 
I  SUPPOSE  the  devil  is  so  elated  with  his  suc- 
cess with  you  that  he  is  determined  by  a  coup 
de  main  to  complete  his  purposes  on  you  all  at 
once,  in  making  you  a  poet.  I  broke  open  the 
letter  you  sent  me ;  hummed  over  the  rhymes  ; 
and,  as  I  saw  they  were  extempore,  said  to  my- 
self, they  were  very  well ;  but  when  I  saw  at 
the  bottom  a  name  that  I  shall  ever  value  with 
grateful  respect,  "I  gapit  wide,  but  naething 
spak."     I  was  nearly  as  much  struck  as  th« 


564 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


friends  of  Job,  of  affliction-bearing  memory, 
when  they  sat  down  with  him  seven  days  and 
seven  nights,  and  spake  not  a  word. 

I  am  naturally  of  a  superstitious  cast,  and 
as  soon  as  my  wonder-scared  imagination  re- 
gained its  consciousness,  and  resumed  its  func- 
tions, I  cast  about  what  this  mania  of  yours 
might  portend.  My  foreboding  ideas  had  the 
wiJe  stretch  of  possibility  ;  and  several  events, 
great  in  their  magnitude,  and  important  in  their 
consequences,  occurred  to  my  fancy.  The 
downfall  of  the  conclave,  or  the  crushing  of  the 
Cork  rumps ;  a  ducal  coronet  to  Lord  George 
Gordon  and  the  Protestant  interest;  or  St. 
Peter's  keys  to  *****  *. 

You  want  to  know  how  I  come  on.  I  am  just 
in  statu  quo,  or,  not  to  insult  a  gentleman  with  my 
Latin,  in  "  auld  use  and  wont."  The  noble 
Earl  of  Glencairn  took  me  by  the  hand  to-day, 
and  interested  himself  in  my  concerns,  with  a 
goodness  like  that  benevolent  Being,  whose 
image  he  so  richly  bears.  He  is  a  stronger 
proof  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  than  any 
that  philosophy  ever  produced.  A  mind  like 
his  can  never  die.  Let  the  worshipful  squire 
H.  L.,  or  the  reverend  Mass  J.  M.  go  into  their 
primitive  nothing.  At  best,  they  are  but  ill- 
digested  lumps  of  chaos,  only  one  of  them 
strongly  tinged  with  bituminous  particles  and 
sulphureous  effluvia.  But  my  noble  patron, 
eternal  as  the  heroic  swell  of  magnanimity,  and 
the  generous  throb  of  benevolence,  shall  look 
on  with  princely  eye  at  "  the  war  of  elements, 
the  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds." 

R.  B. 


LXXXVIII. 


I'O  CHARLES   HAY,  ESQ., 

ADVOCATE. 

Tho  v/erses  enclosed  were  written  on  the  death  of  the 
Lord  President  Dundas,  at  the  suggestion  of  Charles  Hay, 
Es-j.,  advocate,  afterwards  a  judge,  under  the  title  of 
liOrd  Newton.] 

Sir, 
The  enclosed  poem  was  written  in  consequence 
of  your  suggestion,  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you.  It  cost  me  an  hour  or  two  of 
next  morning's  sleep,  but  did  not  please  me  ;  so 
It  lay  by,  an  ill-digested  effort,  till  the  other 
iay  that  I  gave  it  a  critic  brush.  These  kind 
of  subjects  are  much  hackneyed;  and,  besides. 


the  wailings  of  the  rhyming  tribe  over  the  ashei 
of  the  great  are  cursedly  suspicious,  and  out  of 
all  character  for  sincerity.  These  ideas  damped 
my  muse's  fire  ;  however,  I  have  done  the  best 
T  could,  and,  at  all  events,  it  gives  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  declaring  that  I  have  the  honour  to 
be.  Sir,  your  obliged  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


LXXXIX. 
TO   MISS   M N. 


[This  letter  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  the  "  Letters 
to  Clarinda,"  a  little  work  which  was  speedily  sup- 
pressed— it  is,  on  the  whole,  a  sort  of  Cor>-don  and  I'hil- 
lis  affair,  with  here  and  there  expressions  too  graphic,  and 
passages  over- warm.  Who  the  lady  was  is  not  known — 
or  known  only  to  one.] 

Saturday  Noon,  No.  2,  St.  James's  Square, 
New  Town,  Edinburgh. 

Here  have  I  sat,  my  dear  Madam,  in  the 
stony  altitude  of  perplexed  study  for  fifteen  vex- 
atious minutes,  my  head  askew,  bending  over 
the  intended  card ;  my  fixed  eye  insensible  to 
the  very  light  of  day  poured  around  ;  my  pendu- 
lous goose-feather,  loaded  with  ink,  hanging 
over  the  future  letter,  all  for  the  important  pur- 
pose of  writing  a  complimentary  card  to  accom- 
pany your  trinket. 

Compliment  is  such  a  miserable  Greenland  ex 
pression,  lies  at  such  a  chilly  polar  distance 
from  the  torrid  zone  of  my  constitution,  that  I 
cannot,  for  the  very  soul  of  me,  use  it  to  any 
person  for  whom  I  have  the  twentieth  part  of 
the  esteem  every  one  must  have  for  you  who 
knows  you. 

As  I  leave  town  in  three  or  four  days,  I  can 
give  myself  the  pleasm-e  of  calling  on  you  only 
for  a  minute.  Tuesday  evening,  some  time 
about  seven  or  after,  I  shall  wait  on  you  for 
your  farewell  commands. 

The  hinge  of  your  box  I  put  into  the  handa 
of  the  proper  connoisseur.  The  broken  glass, 
likewise,  went  under  review ;  but  deliberative 
wisdom  thought  it  would  too  much  endanger  the 
whole  fabric. 

I  am,  dear  Madam, 

With  all  sincerity  of  enthusiasm. 

Your  very  obedient  servant, 

R.  B 


OF   KOBERT   BURNS. 


36D 


xc. 

TO   MISS   CHALMERS. 

[Some  dozen  or  so,  it  is  said,  of  the  most  beautiful 
tetters  that  Burns  overwrote,  and  dedicated  to  the  beauty 
pf  Charlotte  Hamilton,  were  destroyed  by  that  lady,  in  a 
moment  when  anger  was  too  strong  for  reflection] 

Edinburgh,  Nov.  21,  1787. 

1  HAVE  one  vexatious  fault  to  the  kindly-wel- 
come, well-filled  sheet  which  I  owe  to  your  and 
Charlotte's  goodness, — it  contains  too  much 
sense,  sentiment,  and  good-spelling.  It  is  im- 
possible that  even  you  two,  whom  I  declare  to 
my  God  I  will  give  credit  for  any  degree  of  ex- 
cellence the  sex  are  capable  of  attaining,  it  is 
impossible  you  can  go  on  to  correspond  at  that 
rate  ;  so  like  those  who,  Shenstone  says,  retire 
because  they  make  a  good  speech,  I  shall,  after 
a  few  letters,  hear  no  more  of  you.  I  insist 
that  you  shall  write  whatever  comes  first:  what 
you  see,  what  you  read,  what  you  hear,  what 
you  admire,  what  you  dislike,  trifles,  bagatelles, 
nonsense  ;  or  to  fill  up  a  corner,  e'en  put  down 
a  laugh  at  full  length.  Now  none  of  your  polite 
hints  about  flattery  ;  I  leave  that  to  your  lovers, 
if  you  have  or  shall  have  any  ;  though,  thank 
heaven,  I  have  found  at  last  two  girls  who  can 
be  luxuriantly  happy  in  their  own  minds  and 
with  one  another,  without  that  commonly  neces- 
sary appendage  to  female  bliss — a  lover. 

Charlotte  and  you  are  just  two  favourite  rest- 
ing-places for  my  soul  in  her  wanderings  through 
the  weary,  thorny  wilderness  of  this  world. 
God  knows  I  am  ill-fitted  for  the  struggle :  I 
glory  in  being  a  Poet,  and  I  want  to  be  thought 
a  wise  man — I  would  fondly  be  generous,  and 
I  wish  to  be  rich."  Mter  all,  I  am  afraid  I  am 
a  lost  subject.  "  Some  folk  hae  a  hantle  o' 
fauts,  an'  I'm  but  a  ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon — To  close  the  melancholy  reflec- 
tions at  the  end  of  last  sheet,  I  shall  just  add 
a  piece  of  devotion  commonly  known  in  Carrlck 
by  the  title  of  the  "  Wabster's  grace  :"— 

•'  Some  say  we're  thieves,  and  e'en  sae  are  we, 
Some  say  we  lie,  and  e'en  sae  do  we  ! 
Gude  forgie  us,  and  I  hope  sae  will  he  ! 

Up  and  to  your  looms,  lads." 

R.  B. 


XCI. 

TO   MISS   CHALMERS. 

[The  »  Ochel-Hills,"  which  the  poet  promises  in  this 
.•tier,  is  a  song,  beginning, 


"  Where  braving  angry  winter's  storms 
The  lofty  Ochels  rise," 
written  in  honour  of  Margaret  Chalmers,  and  published 
along  with  the  "  Banks  of  the  Devon,"  in  Johnson's  Mu 
sical  Museum. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  12,  1787. 

I  AM  here  under  the  care  of  a  surgeon,  with 
a  bruised  limb  extended  on  a  cushion  ;  and  tt  9 
tints  of  my  mind  vying  with  the  livid  horror 
preceding  a  midnight  thunder-storm.  A  drunk- 
en coachman  was  the  cause  of  the  first,  and 
incomparably  the  lightest  evil ;  misfortune,  bo- 
dily constitution,  hell,  and  myself  have  formed 
a  "  quadruple  alliance"  to  guaranty  the  other. 
I  got  my  fall  on  Saturday,  and  am  getting 
slowly  better. 

I  have  taken  tooth  and  nail  to  the  Bible,  and 
am  got  through  the  five  books  of  Moses,  and 
half  way  in  Joshua.  It  is  really  a  glorious 
book.  I  sent  for  my  bookbinder  to-day,  and 
ordered  him  to  get  me  an  octavo  Bible  in  sheets, 
the  best  paper  and  print  in  town ;  and  bind  it 
with  all  the  elegance  of  his  craft. 

I  would  give  my  best  song  to  my  worst  enemy, 
I  mean  the  merit  of  making  it,  to  have  you  and 
Charlotte  by  me.  You  are  angelic  creatures, 
and  would  pour  oil  and  wine  into  my  wounded 
spirit. 

I  enclose  you  a  proof  copy  of  the  "  Banks  of 
the  Devon,"  which  present  with  my  best  wishes 
to  Charlotte.  The  "  Ochel-hills"  you  shall  pro- 
bably have  next  week  for  yourself.  None  of 
your  fine  speeches  !  R.  B. 


xcn. 

TO   MISS   CHALMERS. 

[The  eloquent  hypochondriasm  of  the  concluding  para- 
graph of  this  letter,  called  forth  the  commendation  of 
Lord  Jeffrey,  when  he  criticised  Cromek'a  Reliques  of 
Bums,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.] 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  19,  1787.  • 
I  BEGIN  this  letter  in  answer  to  yours  of  the 
17th  current,  which  is  not  yet  cold  since  I  read 
it.  The  atmosphere  of  my  soul  is  vastly  clearer 
than  when  I  wrote  you  last.  For  .the  first  time, 
yesterday  I  crossed  the  room  on  crutches.  It 
would  do  your  heart  good  to  see  my  hardship, 
not  on  my  poetic,  but  on  my  oaken  stilts; 
throwing  my  best  leg  with  an  air  !  and  with  as 
much  hilarity  in  my  gait  and  countenance,  as  a 
May  frog  leaping  across  the  newly  harrowed 


366 


GENERAL   COEKESPONDENCE 


ridge,  enjoying  the  fragrance  of  the  refreshed 
earth,  after  the  long-expected  shower! 

I  can't  say  I  am  altogetHer  at  my  ease  when 
I  see  anywhere  in  my  path  that  meagre,  squalid, 
famine-faced  spectre,  Poverty;  attended  as  he 
always  is,  by  iron-fisted  oppression,  and  leering 
contempt;  but  I  have  sturdily  withstood  his 
Luff( tings  many  a  hard-laboured  day  already, 
And  still  my  motto  is — I  dare  !  My  worst  enemy 
IS  moi-viime.  I  lie  so  miserably  open  to  the  in- 
roads and  incursions  of  a  mischievous,  light- 
armed,  well-mounted  banditti,  under  the  ban- 
ners of  imagination,  whim,  caprice,  and  passion: 
and  the  heavy-armed  veteran  regulars  of  wis- 
dom, prudence,  and  forethought  move  so  very, 
very  slow,  that  I  am  almost  in  a  state  of  per- 
petual warfare,  and,  alas !  frequent  defeat. 
There  are  just  two  creatures  I  would  envy,  a 
horse  in  his  wild  state  traversing  the  forests  of 
Asia,  or  an  oyster  on  some  of  the  desert  shores 
of  Europe.  The  one  has  not  a  wish  without  en- 
joyment, the  other  has  neither  wish  nor  fear. 

R.  B. 


XCIII. 
TO   SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD. 

[Tbe  Whitefoords  of  Whitefoord,  interested  them- 
selves in  all  matters  connected  with  literature:  the  power 
of  the  family,  unluckily  for  Burns,  was  not  equal  to  then- 
taste.] 


Sih. 


Edinburgh,  December,  1787. 


Mr.  Mackenzie,  in  Mauchline,  my  very  warm 
and  worthy  friend,  has  informed  me  how  much 
you  are  pleased  to  interest  yourself  in  my  fate 
as  a  man,  and  (what  to  me  is  incomparably 
dearer)  my  fame  as  a  poet.  I  have.  Sir,  in  one 
or  two  instances,  been  patronized  by  those  of 
your  character  in  life,  when  I  was  introduced  to 
their  notice  by  *****  friends  to  them,  and  ho- 
noured acquaintances  to  me  !  but  you  are  the 
first  gentleman  in  the  country  whose  benevo- 
lence and  goodness  of  heart  has  interested  him- 
self for  me,  unsolicited  and  unknown.  I  am 
not  master  enough  of  the  etiquette  of  these  mat- 
ters to  know,  nor  did  I  stay  to  inquire,  whe- 
ther formal  duty  bade,  or  cold  propriety  disal- 
lowed, my  thanking  you  in  this  manner,  as  I 
am  convinced,  from  the  light  in  which  you 
kindly  view  me,  that  you  will  do  me  the  jus- 
tice tc  believe  this  letter  is  not  the  manoeuvre 
of  the  needy,   sharping  author,   fastening  on 


those  in  upper  life,  who  honour  him  with  a 
little  notice  of  him  or  his  works.  Indeed,  the 
situation  of  poets  is  generally  such,  to  a  pro- 
verb, as  may,  in  some  measure,  palliate  that 
prostitution  of  heart  and  talents,  they  have  at 
times  been  guilty  of.  I  do  not  think  prodigality 
is,  by  any  means,  a  necessary  concomitant  of 
a  poetic  turn,  but  I  believe  a  careless  indolent 
attention  to  economy,  is  almost  inseparable 
from  it ;  then  there  must  be  in  the  heart  of 
every  bard  of  Nature's  making,  a  certain  mo- 
dest sensibility,  mixed  with  a  kind  of  pride, 
that  will  ever  keep  him  out  of  the  way  of  those 
windfalls  of  fortune  which  frequently  light  on 
hardy  impudence  and  foot-licking  servility.  It 
is  not  easy  to  imagine  a  more  helpless  state  than 
his  whose  poetic  fancy  unfits  him  for  theworld, 
and  whose  character  as  a  scholar  gives  him  some 
pretensions  to  the  poUtesse  of  life — yet  is  as  poor 
as  I  am. 

For  my  part,  I  thank  Heaven  my  star  has 
been  kinder ;  learning  never  elevated  my  ideag 
above  the  peasant's  shed,  and  I  have  an  inde- 
pendent fortune  at  the  plough-tail. 

I  was  sxtrprised  to  hear  that  any  one  who  pre- 
tended in  the  least  to  the  manners  of  the  gentle- 
man, should  be  so  foolish,  or  worse,  as  to  stoop 
to  traduce  the  morals  of  such  a  one  as  I  am, 
and  so  inhumanly  cruel,  too,  as  to  meddle  with 
that  late  most  unfortunate,  unhappy  part  of  my 
story.  With  a  tear  of  gratitude,  I  thank  you, 
Sir,  for  the  warmth  with  which  you  interposed 
in  behalf  of  my  conduct.  I  am,  I  acknowledge, 
too  frequently  the  sport  of  whim,  caprice,  and 
passion,  but  reverence  to  God,  and  integrity  to 
my  fellow-creatures,  I  hope  I  shall  ever  pre- 
serve. I  have  no  return.  Sir,  to  make  you  for 
your  goodness  but  one — a  return  which,  I  am 
persuaded,  will  not  be  unacceptable — the  honest, 
warm  wishes  of  a  grateful  heart  for  your  hap- 
piness, and  every  one  of  that  lovely  flock,  who 
stand  to  you  in  a  filial  relation.  If  ever  ca- 
lumny aim  the  poisoned  shaft  at  them,  may 
friendship  be  by  to  ward  the  blow ! 

E.  B. 


XCIV. 
TO   MISS  WILLIAMS, 

ON    READING    HER    POEM    OF    THE    SLAVE-TRADE. 

[The  name  and  merits  of  Miss  Williams  are  widely 
known ;  nor  is  it  a  small  honour  to  her  muse  that  hex 
tender  song  of  •'  Evan  Banks"  was  imputed  to  Jlurns  bj 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


36'' 


Croinek :  otlier  editors  since  hi  ve  continued  to  include 
It  in  his  works,  though  Sir  Walter  Scott  named  the  true 
author.] 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  1787. 

I  KNOW  very  little  of  scientific  criticism,  so 
all  I  can  pretend  to  in  that  intricate  art  is 
merely  to  note,  as  I  read  along,  what  passages 
strike  me  as  being  uncommonly  beautiful,  and 
where  the  expression  seems  to  be  perplexed  or 
faulty. 

The  poem  opens  finely.  There  are  none  of 
these  idle  prefatory  lines  which  one  may  skip 
over  before  one  comes  to  the  subject.  Verses 
9th  and  10th  in  particular, 

"  Where  ocean's  nnseen  bound 
Leaves  a  drear  world  of  waters  round," 

are  truly  beautiful.  The  simile  of  the  hurri- 
cane is  likewise  fine ;  and,  indeed,  beautiful  as 
the  poem  is,  almost  all  the  similes  rise  decidedly 
above  it.  From  verse  31st  to  verse  50th  is  a 
pretty  eulogy  on  Britain.  Verse  36th,  "  That 
foul  drama  deep  with  wrong,"  is  nobly  expres- 
Bive.  Verse  46th,  I  am  afraid,  is  rather  un- 
worthy of  the  rest ;  "  to  dare  to  feel"  is  an  idea 
that  I  do  not  altogether  like.  The  contrast  of 
valour  and  mercy,  from  the  36th  verse  to  the 
50th,  is  admirable. 

Either  my  apprehension  is  dull,  or  there  is 
something  a  little  confused  in  the  apostrophe  to 
Mr.  Pitt.  Verse  55th  is  the  antecedent  to  verses 
57th  and  58th,  but  in  verse  58th  the  connexion 
seems  ungrammatical : — 

"Powers  .... 

With  no  gradations  mark'd  their  flight, 
But  rose  at  once  to  glory's  heiglit." 
Ris'n  should  be  the  word  instead  of  rose.     Try 
it  in  prose.     Powers, — their  flight  marked  by 
no  gradations,  but  [the  same  powers]  risen  at 
once  to  the  height  of  glory.     Likewise,  verse 
53d,  ''For  this,"  is  evidently  meant  to  lead  on 
the   sense  of  the  verses  59th,  60th,   61st,  and 
62d :  but  let  us  try  how  the  thread  of  connex- 
K)n  runs, — 
"  For  this 

The  deeds  of  mercy,  that  embrace 
A  distant  sphere,  an  alien  race, 
Shall  virtue's  lips  record  and  claim 
The  fairest  honours  of  thy  name." 

I  beg  pardon  if  I  misapprehended  the  matter, 
but  this  appears  to  me  the  only  imperfect  pas- 
sage in  the  poem.  The  comparison  of  the  sun- 
beam is  fine. 

The  compliment  to  the  Duke  of  Richmond  is, 


I  hope,  as  just  as  it  is  certainly  elegant.     Th» 
thought, 

"Virtue  .      ^     . 

Sends  from  her  unsuhied  source, 

The  gems  of  thought  their  purest  force," 

is  exceeding  beautiful.  The  idea,  from  verse 
81st  to  the  85th,  that  the  "  blest  decree"  is  like 
the  beams  of  morning  ushering  in  the  glorious 
day  of  liberty,  ought  not  to  pass  unnoticed  or 
unapplauded.  From  verse  85th  to  verse  108th, 
is  an  animated  contrast  between  the  unfeeling 
selfishness  of  the  oppressor  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  misery  of  the  captive  on  the  other. 
Verse  88tli  might  perhaps  be  amended  thus : 
"  Nor  ever  quit  her  narrow  maze."  We  are  said 
to  pass  a  bound,  but  we  quit  a  maze.  Verse  100th 
is  exquisitely  beautiful : — 

"  They,  whom  wasted  blessings  tire." 

Verse  110th  is  I  doubt  a  clashing  of  metaphors  j 
"  to  load  a  span"  is,  I  ain  afraid,  an  unwarrant-. 
able  expression.  In  verse  114th,  "  Cast  the 
universe  in  shade,"  is  a  fine  idea.  From  the 
115th  verse  to  the  142d  is  a  striking  description 
of  the  wrongs  of  the  poor  African.  Verse 
120th,  "  The  load  of  unremitted  pain,"  is  a  re- 
markable, strofcg  expression.  The  address  to  the 
advocates  for  abolishing  the  slave-trade,  from 
verse  14od  to  verse  208th,  is  animated  with 
the  true  life  of  genius.  The  picture  of  oppres- 
sion,— 

"  While  she  links  her  impious  chain, 
And  calculates  the  price  of  pain; 
Weighs  agony  in  sordid  scales, 
And  marks  if  death  or  life  prevails," — 

is  nobly  executed. 

What  a  tender  idea  is  in  verse  108th  !  In- 
deed, that  whole  description  of  home  may  vie 
with  Thomson's  description  of  home,  some- 
where in  the  beginning  of  his  Autumn.  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  seen  a  stronger  expres- 
sion of  misery  than  is  contnined  in  these 
verses : — 

"  Condemned,  severe  extreme,  to  live 
When  all  is  fled  that  life  can  give  '• 

The  comparison  of  our  distant  joys  to  distant 
objects  is  equally  original  and  striking. 

The  character  and  manners  of  the  dealer  in 
the  infernal  traffic  is  a  well  done  though  a  hor- 
rid picture.  I  am  not  sure  how  far  introduc- 
ing the  sailor  was  right ;  for  though  the  sailor's 
common  characteristic  is  generosity,  yet,  in 
this  case,  he  is  certainly  not  only  an  uncon- 
cerned witness,  but.  in  some  degree,  an  efiScient 


368 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


agent  in  the  business.  Verse  224th  is  a  ner- 
vous ....  expressive — "The  heart  convulsive 
anguish  breaks."  The  description  of  the  cap- 
tive wretch  when  he  arrives  in  the  West  Indies, 
is  carried  on  with  equal  spirit.  The  thought 
that  the  oppressor's  sorrow  on  seeing  the  slave 
pine,  is  like  the  butcher's  regret  when  his 
destined  lamb  dies  a  natural  death,  is  exceed- 
ingly fine. 

I  am  got  so  much  into  the  cant  of  criticism, 
tliat  I  begin  to  be  afraid  lest  I  have  nothing  ex- 
cept the  cant  of  it ;  and  instead  of  elucidating 
my  author,  am  only  benighting  myself.  For 
this  reason,  I  will  not  pretend  to  go  through  the 
•whole  poem.  Some  few  remaining  beautiful 
lines,  however,  I  cannot  pass  over.  Verse  280th 
is  the  strongest  description  of  selfishness  I  ever 
saw  The  comparison  of  verses  285th  and 
286th  is  new  and  fine;  and  the  line,  "Your 
arms  to  penury  you  lend,"  is  excellent.  In 
verse  317th,  "like"  should  certainly  be  "as" 
or  "  so  ;"  for  instance — 

"  His  sway  the  hardened  bosom  leads 
To  cruelty's  remorseless  deeds  : 
As  (or,  so)  the  blue  lightning  when  it  springs 
Witli  fury  on  its  livid  wings, 
Darts  on  the  goal  with  rapid  force, 
Nor  heeds  that  ruin  marks  its  course." 

If  you  insert  the  word  "  like  "  where  I  have 
placed  "as,"  you  must  alter  "darts"  to  "dart- 
ing," and  "heeds"  to  "heeding"  in  order  to 
make  it  grammar.  A  tempest  is  a  favourite 
subject  with  the  poets,  but  I  do  not  remember 
anything  even  in  Thomson's  Winter  superior  to 
your  verses  from  the  347th  to  the  351st.  In- 
deed, the  last  simile,  beginning  with  "Fancy 
may  dress,"  &c.,  and  ending  with  the  350th 
verse,  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  beautiful  pas- 
sage in  the  poem ;  it  would  do  honour  to  the 
greatest  names  that  ever  graced  our  profession. 

I  will  not  beg  your  pardon.  Madam,  for  these 
strictures,  as  my  conscience  tells  me,  that  for 
once  in  my  life  I  have  acted  up  to  the  duties  of 
a  Christian,  in  doing  as  I  would  be  done  by. 

R.  B. 


XCV. 
TO   MR.    RICHARD  BROWN, 

IRVINE. 

[Richard  Brown  was  the  "  hapless  son  of  misfortune," 
alluded  to  by  Burns  in  his  biographical  letter  to  Dr. 


Moore:  by  fortitude  and  prudence  he  retrieved  his  for- 
tunes, and  lived  much  respected  in  Greenock,  to  a  gooi 
old  age.  He  said  Burns  had  little  to  learn  in  matters  oi 
levity,  when  he  became  acquainted  with  him.] 

Edinburgh,  ZOth  Dec.  1787. 
My  deae  Sir, 

I  HAVE  met  with  few  things  in  life  which 
have  given  me  more  pleasure  than  Fortune's 
kindness  to  you  since  those  days  in  which  we 
met  in  the  vale  of  misery ;  as  I  can  honestly 
say,  that  I  never  knew  a  man  who  more  truly 
deserved  it,  or  to  whom  my  heart  more  truly 
wished  it.  I  have  been  much  indebted  since 
that  time  to  your  story  and  sentiments  for  steel- 
ing my  mind  against  evils,  of  which  I  have  had 
a  pretty  decent  share.  My  will-o'wisp  fate 
you  know :  do  you  recollect  a  Sunday  we  spent 
together  in  Eglinton  woods !  You  told  me,  on 
my  repeating  some  verses  to  you,  that  you  won- 
dered I  could  resist  the  temptation  of  sending 
verses  of  such  merit  to  a  magazine.  It  was 
from  this  remark  I  derived  that  idea  of  my  own 
pieces,  which  encouraged  me  to  endeavour  at 
the  character  of  a  poet.  I  am  happy  to  hear 
that  you  will  be  two  or  three  months  at  home. 
As  soon  as  a  bruised  limb  will  permit  me,  I 
shall  return  to  Ayrshire,  and  we  shall  meet ; 
"and  faith,  I  hope  we'll  not  sit  dumb,  nor  yet 
cast  out !" 

I  have  much  to  tell  you  "of  men,  their  man- 
ners, and  their  ways,"  perhaps  a  little  of  the 
other  sex.  Apropos,  I  beg  to  be  remembered 
to  Mrs.  Brown.  There  I  doubt  not,  my  dear 
friend,  but  you  have  found  substantial  happiness. 
I  expect  to  find  you  something  of  an  altered  but 
not  a  different  man  ;  the  wild,  bold,  generous 
young  fellow  composed  into  the  steady  aff'ection- 
ate  husband,  and  the  fond  careful  parent.  For 
me,  I  am  just  the  same  will-o'-wisp  being  I  usea 
to  be.  About  the  first  and  fourth  quarters  of  the 
moon,  I  generally  set  in  for  the  trade  wind  of 
wisdom ;  but  about  the  full  and  change,  I  am 
the  luckless  victim  of  mad  tornadoes,  which 
blow  me  into  chaos.  Almighty  love  still  reigns 
and  revels  in  my  bosom ;  and  I  am  at  this  mo- 
ment ready  to  hang  myself  for  a  young  Edin- 
burgh widow,  who  has  wit  and  wisdom  more 
murderously  fatal  than  the  assassinating  stiletto 
of  the  Sicilian  banditti,  or  the  poisoned  arrow  of 
the  savage  African.  My  highland  dirk,  that  used 
to  hang  beside  my  crutches,  I  have  gravely  re- 
moved into  a  neighbouring  closet,  the  key  of 
which  I  cannot  command  in  case  of  spring, 
tide  paroxysms.     You  may  guess  of  her  wit  bj 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


361) 


*he  following   verses,  which   she    sent  me  the 
gther  day  :— 

Talk  not  of  love,  it  gives  me  pain, 

For  love  has  been  my  foe  ; 
He  bound  me  with  an  iron  chain, 

And  plunged  nie  deep  in  woe  ! 

But  friendship's  pure  and  lasting  joys, 

My  heart  was  formed  to  prove,— 
There,  welcome,  win,  and  wear  the  prize, 

But  never  talk  of  love  ! 

Your  friendship  much  can  make  me  blest — 

O  why  that  bliss  destroy  ? 
Why  urge  the  odious  one  request, 

You  know  I  must  deny?"' 

Afy  best   compliments   to    our   friend  Allan. 
Idicu !  R.  B. 


XCVI. 

TO   GAVIN   HAMILTON. 

[The  Hamiltons  of  the  West  contmue  to  love  the 
nemory  erf  Burns  :  the  old  arm-chair  in  which  the  bard 
lat,  wlken  he  visited  Nanse  Tinnooks,  was  lately  pre- 
iented  to  the  mason  lodge  of  Mauchline,  by  Dr.  Hamil- 
ton, the  "  wee  curly  Johnnie"  of  the  Dedication.] 

[Edinburffh,  Dec.  1787.] 
My  dear  Sir, 
It  is  indeed  with  the  highest  pleasure  that 
[  congratulate  you  on  the  return  of  days  of  ease 
ind  nights  of  pleasure,  after  the  horrid  hours 
of  misery  in  which  I  saw  you  suffering  existence 
when  last  in  Ayrshire ;  I  seldom  pray  for  any 
body,  «'  I'm  baith  dead-sweer  and  wretched  ill 
o't ;"  but  most  fervently  do  I  beseech  the  Power 
that  directs  the  world,  that  you  may  live  long 
and  be  happy,  but  live  no  longer  than  you  are 
happy.  It  is  needless  for  me  to  advise  you  to 
have  a  reverend  care  of  your  health.  I  know 
you  will  make  it  a  point  never  at  one  time  to 
drink  more  than  a  pint  of  wine  (I  mean  an 
English  pint),  and  that  you  will  never  be  wit- 
ness to  more  than  one  bowl  of  punch  at  a  time, 
and  that  cold  drams  you  will  never  more  taste ; 
and,  above  all  things,  I  am  convinced,  that  after 
drinking  perhaps  boiling  punch,  you  will  never 
mount  your  horse  and  gallop  home  in  a  chill 
late  hour.  Above  all  things,  as  I  understand 
you  are  in  habits  of  intimacy  with  that  Boaner- 
ges of  gospel  powers.  Father  Auld,  be  earnest 
with  him  that  he  will  wrestle  in  prayer  for  you, 

•  See  song  186,  in  Johnsou's  Musical  Museum.    Burni 
altered  the  two  last  lines,  and  added  u  stanza: 
Why  urge  the  only  erne  request 
You  know  I  will  deny! 


that  you  may  see  the  vanity  of  vanities  in  trust- 
ing to,  or  even  practising  the  casual  moral 
works  of  charity,  humanity,  genorosity,  and 
forgiveness  of  things,  which  you  practised  so 
flagrantly  that  it  was  evident  you  delighted  in 
them,  neglecting,  or  perhaps  profanely  despis- 
ing, the  wholesome  doctrine  of  faith  without 
works,  the  only  anchor  of  salvation.  A  hymn 
of  thanksgiving  would,  in  my  opinion,  be  highly 
becoming  from  you  at  present,  and  in  my  zeal  for 
your  well-being,  I  earnestly  press  on  you  to  be 
diligent  in  chanting  over  the  two  enclosed  pieces 
of  sacred  poesy.  My  best  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Hamilton  and  Miss  Kennedy. 

Yours  in  the  L — d, 

R.  B. 


xcvn. 

TO   MISS   CHALMERS. 

[The  blank  which  takes  the  place  of  the  name  of  the 
"  Gentleman  in  mind  and  manners,"  of  this  letter,  can- 
not now  be  filled  up,  nor  is  it  much  matter :  the  acquaint 
ance  of  such  a  man  as  the  poet  describes  few  or  non« 
would  desire.] 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  1787. 
My  dear  Madam, 
I  JUST  now  have  read  yours.  The  poetic 
compliments  I  pay  cannot  be  misunderstood- 
They  are  neither  of  them  so  particular  as  to 
point  you  out  to  the  world  at  large  ;  and  the 
circle  of  your  acquaintances  will  allow  all  I  have 
said.  Besides,  I  have  complimented  you  chiefly^ 
almost  solely,  on  your  mental  charms.  Shall  1 
be  plain  with  you  ?  I  will ;  so  look  to  it.  Per- 
sonal attractions.  Madam,  you  have  much  above 
par  ;  wit,  understanding,  and  worth,  you  pos- 
sess in  the  first  class.  This  is  a  cursed  flat  way 
of  telling  you  these  truths,  but  let  me  hear  no 
more  of  your  sheepish  timidity.  I  know  the 
world  a  little.  I  know  what  they  will  say  of 
my  poems  ;  by  second  sight  I  suppose ;  for  I 
am  seldom  out  in  my  conjectures ;  and  you  may 
believe  me,  my  dear  Madam,  I  would  not  run 
any  risk  of  hurting  you  by  any  ill-judged  com- 
pliment.  I  wish  to  show  to  the  world,  the  odds 
between  a  poet's  friends  and  those  of  simple 
prosemen.  More  for  your  information,  both  the 
pieces  go  in.     One  of  them,  "  Where   braving 


Your  thought  if  love  must  harbour  there. 

Conceal  it  in  that  thought ; 
Nor  cause  me  from  my  bosom  tear 

The  very  friend  I  sought. 


370 


GENERAL   COliRESPOxXDENCE 


angry  winter's  storms,"  is  already  set — the  tune 
is  Neil  GoAv's  Lamentation  for  Ahercarny ;  the 
other  is  to  be  set  to  an  old  Highland  air  in  Da- 
niel Dow's  collection  of  ancient  Scots  music ; 
the  name  is  "  Ila  a  Chaillich  air  mo  Dheilh."  My 
treacherous  memory  has  forgot  every  circum- 
stance about  Les  Incas,  only  I  think  you  men- 
tioned them  as  being  in  Creech's  possession.  I 
shall  ask  him  about  it.  I  am  afraid  the  song 
of  "Somebody"  will  come  too  late — as  I  shall, 
for  certain,  leave  town  in  a  week  for  Ayrshire, 
and  from  that  to  Dumfries,  but  there  my  hopes 
are  slender.  I  leave  my  direction  in  town,  so 
anything,  wherever  I  am,  will  reach  me. 

1  saw  yours  to ;  it  is  not  too  severe,  nor 

did  he  take  it  amiss.  On  the  contrary,  like  a 
whipt  spaniel,  he  talks  of  being  with  you  in  the 

Christmas  days.     Mr.  has  given  him  the 

invitation,  and  he  is  determined  to  accept  of  it. 
0  selfishness !  he  owns,  in  his  sober  moments, 
that  from  his  own  volatility  of  inclination,  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  is  situated,  and  his 
knowledge  of  his  father's  disposition; — the 
whole  affair  is  chimerical — yet  he  will  gratify 
an  idle  penchant  at  the  enormous,  cruel  expense, 
of  perhaps  ruining  the  peace  of  the  very  woman 
for  whom  he  professes  the  generous  passion  of 
love  !  He  is  a  gentleman  in  his  mind  and  man- 
ners— tant  pis  !  He  is  a  volatile  school-boy — 
the  heir  of  a  man's  fortune  who  well  tnows  the 
value  of  two  times  two  I 

Perdition  seize  them  and  their  fortunes,  be- 
fore they  should  make  the  amiable,  the  lovely 

,  the  derided  object  of  their  purse-proud 

contempt  I 

1  am  doubly  happy  to  hear  of  Mrs. 's  reco- 
very, because  I  really  thought  all  was  over  with 
her.  There  are  days  of  pleasure  yet  awaiting 
her  : 

"  As  I  came  in  by  Glenap, 
I  mat  with  an  aged  woman : 
She  bad  me  cheer  up  my  heart, 
For  the  best  o'  my  days  was  corrin'." 

This  day  will  decide  my  affairs  with  Creech. 
Things  are,  like  myself,  not  what  they  ought  to 
be  ;  yet  better  than  what'  they  appear  to  be. 

"  Heaven's  sovereign  saves  all  beings  but  himself— 
That  hideous  sight — a  naked  human  heart." 

Forewell !  remember  me  to  Charlotte. 

R.  B. 


XCVIII. 

TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[The  poet  alludes  in  this  letter,  as  in  some  before,  to  a 
hurt  which  he  got  in  one  of  his  excursions  in  the  neigh* 
bourhood  of  Edinburgh.] 

Edinburgh,  January  21,  1788. 

After  six  weeks'  confinement,  I  am  beginning 
to  walk  across  the  room.  They  have  been  six 
horrible  weeks  ;  anguish  and  low  spirits  made 
me  unfit  to  read,  write,  or  think, 

I  have  a  hundred  times  wished  that  one  could 
resign  life  as  an  officer  resigns  a  commission: 
fori  would  not  take  in  any  poor,  ignorant  wretch, 
by  selling  out.  Lately  I  was  a  sixpenny  private ; 
and,  God  knows,  a  miserable  soldier  enough  ; 
now  I  march  to  the  campaign,  a  starving  cadet : 
a  little  more  conspicuously  wretched. 

I  am  ashamed  of  all  this ;  for  though  I  do 
want  bravery  for  the  warfare  of  life,  I  could 
wish,  like  some  other  soldiers,  to  have  as  much 
fortitude  or  cunning  as  to  dissemble  or  conceal 
my  cowardice. 

As  soon  as  I  can  bear  the  journey,  which  will 
be,  I  suppose,  about  the  middle  of  next  week,  I 
leave  Edinburgh :  and  soon  after  I  shall  pay 
my  grateful  duty  at  Dunlop-House. 

R.  B. 


XCIX. 

TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[The  levity  with  which  Bums  sometimes  spoke  of 
things  sacred,  had  been  obliquely  touched  upon  by  his 
good  and  anxious  friend  Mrs.  Duulop:  he  pleads  guilty 
of  folly,  but  not  of  irreligion.] 

Edinburgh,  February  12, 1788. 
SoJiE  things  in  your  late  letters  hurt  me :  not 
that  you  say  them,  but  that  you  mistake  me.  Re- 
ligion, my  honoured  Madam,  has  not  only  been 
all  my  life  my  chief  dependence,  but  my  dearest 
enjoyment.  I  have,  indeed,  been  the  luckless 
victim  of  wayward  follies  ;  but,  alas  !  I  have 
ever  been  "  more  fool  than  knave."  A  mathe- 
matician without  religion  is  a  probable  charac- 
ter ;  an  irreligious  poet  is  a  monster. 

R.  B 


C. 

TO   THE   REV.   JOHN   SKINNER. 

[When  Burns  undertook  to  supply  Johnson  with  songi 
for  the  Musical  Museum,  he  laid  all  the  bards  of  Scotland 


OF   K013E11T   BUKNS. 


371 


ander  contribution,  and  Skinner  among  the  number,  of 
whose  talents,  as  well  as  those  of  Ross,  author  of  Hele- 
nore,  he  was  a  great  admirer.] 

Edinburgh,  \ith  February,  1788. 
Reverend  and  dear  Sir, 

I  HAVE  been  a  cripple  now  near  three  months, 
though  I  am  getting  vastly  better,  and  have 
been  very  much  hurried  beside,  or  else  I  would 
have  wrote  you  sooner.  I  must  beg  your  par- 
don for  the  epistle  you  sent  me  appearing  in  the 
Magazine.  I  had  given  a  copy  or  two  to  some 
of  my  intimate  friends,  but  did  not  know  of  the 
printing  of  it  till  the  publication  of  the  Maga- 
zine. However,  as  it  does  great  honour  to  us 
both,  you  will  forgive  it; 

The  second  volume  of  the  songs  I  mentioned 
to  you  in  my  last  is  published  to-day.  I  send 
you  a  copy  which  I  beg  you  will  accept  as  a 
mark  of  the  veneration  I  have  long  had,  and 
shall  ever  have,  for  your  character,  and  of  the 
claim  I  make  to  your  continued  acquaintance. 
Your  songs  appear  in  the  third  volume,  with 
your  name  in  the  index ;  as,  I  assure  you.  Sir, 
I  have  heard  your  "  TuUochgorum,"  particu- 
larly among  our  west-country  folks,  given  to 
many  different  names,  and  most  commonly  to 
the  immortal  author  of  "  The  Minstrel,"  who, 
indeed,  never  wrote  anything  superior  to  "Gie's 
a  sang,  Montgomery  cried."  Your  brother  has 
promised  me  your  verses  to  the  Marquis  of 
Huntley's  reel,  which  certainly  deserve  a  place 
in  the  collection.  My  kind  host,  Mr.  Cruik- 
Bhank,  of  the  High-school  here,  and  said  to  be 
one  of  the  best  Latins  in  this  age,  begs  me  to 
make  you  his  grateful  acknowledgments  for  the 
entertainment  he  has  got  in  a  Latin  publica- 
tion of  yours,  that  I  borrowed  for  him  from 
your  acquaintance  and  much  respected  friend 
in  this  place,  the  Reverend  Dr.  Webster.  Mr. 
Cruikshank  maintains  that  you  write  the  best 
Latin  since  Buchanan.  I  leave  Edinburgh  to- 
morrow, but  shall  return  in  three  weeks.  Your 
Bong  you  mentioned  in  your  last,  to  the  tune  of 
"Dumbarton  Drums,"  and  the  other,  which  you 
Bay  was  done  by  a  brother  by  trade  of  mine,  a 
ploughman,  I  shall  thank  you  much  for  a  copy 
of  each.  I  am  ever,  Reverend  Sir,  with  the 
most  respectful  esteem  and  sincere  veneration, 
fours,  R.  B. 


CI. 


TO  RICHARD   BROWN. 

[The  letters  of  Burns  to  Brown,  and  Smith,  and  Ricl* 
mond,  and  others  of  his  west-country  friencs,  writte« 
when  he  was  in  the  first  flush  of  fame,  show  that  he  ditl 
not  forget  humble  men,  who  anticipated  the  public  di 
perceiving  his  merit.] 

Edinburgh,  February  \bth,  1788. 
My  dear  Friend, 
I  received  yours  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 
I  shall  arrive  ai  Glasgow  on  Monday  evening; 
and  beg,  if  possible,  you  will  meet  me  on  Tues- 
day. I  shall  wait  you  Tuesday  all  day.  I  shall 
be  found  at  Davies',  Black  Bull  inn.  I  am  hur- 
ried, as  if  hunted  by  fifty  devils,  else  I  should 
go  to  Greenock  ;  but  if  you  cannot  possibly  come, 
write  me,  if  possible,  to  Glasgow,  on  Monday ; 
or  direct  to  me  at  Mossgiel  by  Mauchline  ;  and 
name  a  day  and  place  in  Ayrshire,  within  a  fort- 
night from  this  date,  where  I  may  meet  you.  I 
only  stay  a  fortnight  in  Ayrshire,  and  return 
to  Edinburgh.  I  am  ever,  my  dearest  friend, 
yours, 

R.  B. 


CII. 
TO  MRS.   ROSE,   OF  KILRAVOCK. 

[Mrs.  Rose  of  Kilravock,  a  lady  distinguished  by  the 
elegance  of  her  mnnners.  as  well  as  by  her  talents,  was 
long  remembered  by  Burns :  she  procured  for  him  snatches 
of  old  songs,  and  copies  of  northern  melodies  ;  to  her  we 
owe  the  preservation  of  some  fine  airs  as  well  as  the  iu- 
spiration  of  some  fine  lyrics.] 

Edinburgh,  February  17th,  1788. 
Madam, 

You  are  much  indebted  to  some  indispensable 
business  I  have  had  on  my  Lands,  otherwise  my 
gratitude  threatened  such  a  return  for  your 
obliging  favour  as  would  have  tired  your  p!:.ti- 
ence.  It  but  poorly  expresses  my  feelings  to  say, 
that  I  am  sensible  of  your  kindness :  it  may  be 
said  of  hearts  such  as  yours  is,  and  such,  I  hope, 
mine  is,  much  more  justly  than  Addison  applies 
it,— 

"  Some  souls  by  instinct  to  each  other  turn." 

There  was  something  in  my  reception  at  Kil- 
ravock so  different  from  the  cold,  obsequious, 
dancing-school  bow  of  politeness,  that  it  almost 
got  into  my  head  that  friendship  had  occupied 


372 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


litr  ground  without  the  intermediate  march  of 
acquaintance.  I  wish  I  could  transcribe,  or 
ratlier  transfuse  into  language,  the  glow  of  my 
heart  when  I  read  your  letter.  My  ready  fancy, 
with  colours  more  mellow  than  life  itself,  painted 
the  beautifully  wild  scenery  of  Kilravock — the 
venerable  grandeur  of  the  castle — the  spreading 
woods — the  winding  river,  glady  leaving  his 
unsightly,  heathy  source,  and  lingering  with  ap- 
parent delight  as  he  passes  the  fairy  walk  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden; — your  late  distressful 
anxieties — your  present  enjoyments — your  dear 
little  angel,  the  pride  of  your  hopes; — my  aged 
friend,  venerable  in  worth  and  years,  whose 
loyalty  and  other  virtues  will  strongly  entitle 
her  to  the  support  of  the  Almighty  Spirit  here, 
and  his  peculiar  favour  in  a  happier  state  of  ex- 
istence. You  cannot  imagine.  Madam,  how 
much  such  feelings  delight  me ;  they  are  my 
dearest  proofs  of  my  own  immortality.  Should 
I  never  revisit  the  north,  as  probably  I  never 
will,  nor  again  see  your  hospitable  mansion, 
were  I,  some  twenty  years  hence,  to  see  your 
little  fellow's  name  making  a  proper  figure  in  a 
newspaper  paragraph,  my  heart  would  bound 
with  pleasure. 

I  am  assisting  a  friend  in  a  collection  of  Scot- 
tish songs,  set  to  their  proper  tunes;  every  air 
worth  preserving  is  to  be  included :  among  others 
I  have  given  "Morag,"  and  some  few  Highland 
airs  which  pleased  me  most,  a  dress  which  will 
be  more  generally  known,  though  far,  far  infe- 
rior in  real  merit.  As  a  small  mark  of  my 
grateful  esteem,  I  beg  leave  to  present  you  with 
a  copy  of  the  work,  as  far  as  it  is  printed ;  the 
Man  of  Feeling,  that  first  of  men,  has  promised 
to  transmit  it  by  the  first  opportunity. 

I  beg  to  be  remembered  most  respectfully  to 
my  venerable  friend,  and  to  your  little  Highland 
chieftain.  "When  you  see  the  "two  fair  spirits 
of  the  hill,"  at  Kildrummie,^  tell  them  that  I 
have  done  myself  the  honour  of  setting  myself 
down  as  one  of  their  admirers  for  at  least  twenty 
years  to  come,  consequently  they  must  look 
upon  me  as  an  acquaintance  for  the  same  period ; 
but,  as  the  apostle  Paul  says,  "this  I  ask  of 
grace,  not  of  debt." 

I  have  the  honour  to  be.  Madam,  &c., 

R.  B. 


1  Miss  Sophia  Brodie,  of  L- 
liilravock. 


and  Miss  Rose  of 


cm. 

TO   RICHARD   BROWN. 

[While  Burns  was  confined  to  his  lodgings  by  hii 
maimed  liinh,  he  beguiled  the  time  and  eased  the  piiin  b) 
composing  ttie  Clarinda  epistles,  writing  songs  for  Jolio- 
son,  and  letters  to  his  companions.] 

Mossgiel,  2ith  February,  178°. 
My  dear  Sir, 
I  CANNOT  get  the  proper  direction  for  my 
friend  in  Jamaica,  but  the  following  will  do : — 
To  Mr.  Jo.  Hutchinson,  at  Jo.  Brownrigg's, 
Esq.,  care  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Henriquez,  mer- 
chant, Orange-street,  Kingston.  I  arrived  here, 
at  my  brother's,  only  yesterday,  after  fighting  my 
way  through  Paisley  and  Kilmarnock,  against 
those  old  powerful  foes  of  mine,  the  devil,  the 
world,  and  the  flesh — so  terrible  in  the  fields  of 
dissipation.  I  have  met  with  few  incidents  in 
my  life  which  gave  me  so  much  pleasure  as 
meeting  you  in  Glasgow.  There  is  a  time  of 
life  beyond  which  we  cannot  form  a  tie  worth 
the  name  of  friendship.  "  0  youth  !  enchanting 
stage,  profusely  blest."  Life  is  a  fairy  scene : 
almost  all  that  deserves  the  name  of  enjoyment 
or  pleasure  is  only  a  charming  delusion  ;  and  in 
comes  repining  age  in  all  the  gravity  of  hoary 
wisdom,  and  wretchedly  chases  away  the  be- 
witching phantom.  When  I  think  of  life,  I  re- 
solve to  keep  a  strict  look-out  in  the  course  of 
economy,  for  the  sake  of  worldly  convenience 
and  independence  of  mind  ;  to  cultivate  intimacy 
with  a  few  of  the  companions  of  youth,  that 
they  may  be  the  friends  of  age ;  never  to  re- 
fuse my  liquorish  humour  a  handful  of  the 
sweetmeats  of  life,  when  they  come  not  too  dear ; 
and,  for  futurity, — 

"  The  present-  moment  is  our  ain, 
The  neist  we  never  saw  !"i 

How  like  you  my  philosophy  ?  Give  my  best 
compliments  to  Mrs.  B.,  and  believe  me  to  be. 
My  dear  Sir, 

Yours  most  truly, 

R.  B. 


CIV. 
TO  MR.  WILLIAM  CRUIKSHANK. 

[The  excise  and  farming  alternately  occupied  tne  poet'i 
thoughts  in  Edinburgh  :  he  studied  books  of  husbandrv 

2  Mickle. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


37^ 


nd  took  lessons  in  gauging,  and  in  the  latter  he  became 
xpert.J 


Mauchline,  March  Sd,  1788. 
My  dear  Sir, 
Apologies  for  not  writing  are  frequently 
like  apologies  for  not  singing— the  apology 
better  than  the  song.  I  have  fought  my  way 
severely  through  the  savage  hospitality  of  this 
country,  to  send  every  guest  drunk  to  bed  if 
they  can. 

I  executed  your  commission  in  Glasgow,  and 
I  hope  the  cocoa  came  safe.  'Twas  the  same 
price  and  the  very  same  kind  as  your  former 
parcel,  for  the  gentleman  recollected  your  buy- 
ing there  perfectly  well. 

I  should  return  my  thanks  for  your  hos- 

pitality (I  leave  a  blank  for  the  epithet,  as  I 
know  none  can  do  it  justice)  to  a  poor,  wayfar- 
ing bard,  who  was  spent  and  almost  overpowered 
fighting   with    prosaic   wickednesses    in    high 
places  ;  but  I  am  afraid  lest  you  should  burn 
the  letter  whenever  you  come  to  the  passage, 
BO  I  pass  over  it  in   silence.      I  am  just  re- 
turned from  visiting  Mr.   Miller's  farm.     The 
friend  whom  I  told  you  I  would  take  with  me 
was  highly  pleased  with  the  farm ;  and  as  he  is, 
without  exception,  the  most  intelligent  farmer 
in  the  country,  he  has  staggered  me  a  good 
deal.     I  have  the  two  plans  of  life  before  me ; 
I  shall  balance  them  to  the  best  of  my  judgment, 
and  fix  on  the  most  eligible.     I  have  written 
Mr.  Miller,  and  shall  wait  on  him  when  I  come 
to  town,  which  shall  be  the  beginning  or  middle 
of  next  week ;  I  would  be  in  sooner,  but  my  un- 
lucky knee  is  rather  worse,  and  I  fear  for  some 
time  will  scarcely  stand  the  fatigue  of  my  Ex- 
cise instructions.    I  only  mention  these  ideas  to 
you  ;   and,  indeed,  except  Mr.  Ainslie,  whom  I 
intend  writing  to  to-morrow,  I  will  not  write  at 
all  to  Edinburgh  till  I  return  to  it     I  would 
Bend  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Nicol,  but  he  would 
be  hurt  if  he  knew  I  wrote  to  anybody  and  not 
to  him :  so  I  shall  only  beg  my  best,  kindest, 
kindest  compliments  to  my  worthy  hostess  and 
the  sweet  little  rose-bud. 

So  soon  as  I  am  settled  in  the  routine  of  life, 
either  as  an  Excise-officer,  or  as  a  farmer,  I  pro- 
pose myself  great  pleasure  from  a  regular  cor- 
respondence with  the  only  man  almost  I  ever 
?aw  who  joined  the  most  attentive  prudence  with 
the  warmest  generosity. 
I  am  much  interested  for  that  best  of  men. 


Mr.  Wood ;  I  hope  he  is  in  better  health  and 
spirits  than  when  I  saw  him  last. 
I  am  ever, 

My  dearest  friend, 
Your  obliged,  humble  servant, 

B.  B. 


cv. 

TO  ROBERT   AINSLIE,  ESQ. 

[The  sensible  and  intelligent  farmer  on  whose  judg' 
ment  Burns  depended  in  the  choice  of  bis  farm,  was  Mr 
Tail,  of  Glenconner.] 

Mauchline,  Zd  Mareh^  1788. 
My  dear  Friend, 
I  AM  just  returned  from  Mr.  Miller's  farm. 
My  old  friend  whom  I  took  with  me  was  highly 
pleased  with  the  bargain,  and  advised  me  to  ac- 
cept of  it.  He  is  the  most  intelligent  sensible 
farmer  in  the  county,  and  his  advice  has  stag- 
gered me  a  good  deal.  I  have  the  two  plans 
before  me  :  I  shall  endeavour  to  balance  them 
to  the  best  of  my  judgement,  and  fix  on  the 
most  eligible.  On  the  whole,  if  I  find  Mr.  Mil- 
ler in  the  same  favourable  disposition  as  when 
I  saw  him  last,  I  shall  in  all  probability  turn 
farmer. 

I  have  been  through  sore  tribulation  and 
under  much  buffeting  of  the  wicked  one  since 
I  came  to  this  country.  Jean  I  found  banished, 
forlorn,  destitute  and  friendless :  I  have  recon- 
ciled her  to  her  fate,  and  I  have  reconciled  her 
to  her  mother. 

I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh  middle  of  next  week. 
My  farming  ideas  I  shall  keep  private  till  I  see. 
I  got  a  letter  from  Clarinda  yesterday,  and  she 
tells  me  she  has  got  no  letter  of  mine  but  one. 
Tell  her  that  I  wrote  to  her  from  Glasgow,  from 
Kilmarnock,  from  Mauchline,  and  yesterday 
from  Cumnock  as  I  returned  from  Dumfries. 
Indeed  she  is  the  only  person  in  Edinburgh  i 
have  written  to  till  this  day.  How  are  your  eoal 
and  body  putting  up  ?— a  little  like  man  and 
wife,  I  suppose.  ^'  ^- 


574 


GENERAL    CORIIESPONDENCE 


cvi. 

TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

[Richard  IJrown,  it  is  said,  fell  off  in  his  liking  for 
Burns  when  he  found  that  he  had  made  free  with  his 
dime  in  his  epistle  to  Moore.] 

Mauchline,  7th  March,  1788. 

I  HAVE  been  out  of  the  country,  my  dear  friend, 
and  have  not  had  an  opportunity  of  writing  till 
now,  when  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  gone  out  of 
the  country  too.  I  have  been  looking  at  farms, 
and,  after  all,  perhaps  I  may  settle  in  the  cha- 
racter of  a  farmer.  I  have  got  so  vicious  a  bent 
to  idleness,  and  have  ever  been  so  little  a  man 
of  business,  that  it  will  take  no  ordinary  effort 
to  bring  my  mind  properly  into  the  routine:  but 
you  will  say  a  "great  effort  is  worthy  of  you." 
I  say  so  myself ;  and  butter  up  my  vanity  with 
all  the  stimulating  compliments  I  can  think  of. 
Men  of  grave,  geometrical  minds,  the  sons  of 
<'  which  was  to  be  demonstrated,"  may  cry  up 
reason  as  much  as  they  please  ;  but  1  have  al- 
ways found  an  honest  passion,  or  native  instinct, 
the  truest  auxiliary  in  the  warfare  of  this 
world.  Reason  almost  always  comes  to  me  like 
an  unlucky  wife  to  a  poor  devil  of  a  husband, 
just  in  suflBcient  time  to  add  her  reproaches  to 
his  other  grievances. 

I  am  gratified  with  your  kind  inquiries  after 
Jean  ;  as,  after  all,  I  may  say  with  Othello : — 

"  Excellent  wretch  ! 

Perdition  catch  my  soul,  but  I  do  love  thee  !" 

I  go  for  Edinburgh  on  Monday. 

Yours,— R.  B. 


cvn. 

TO  MR.    MUIR. 


[The  chanje  which  Burns  says  in  this  letter  took  place 
in  hig  ideas,  refers,  it  is  said,  to  his  West  India  voyage, 
on  wliich,  it  appears  by  one  of  his  letters  to  Smith,  he 
meditated  for  some  time  after  his  debut  in  Edinburgh.] 

Mossgiel,  7  th  March,  1788. 
Deak  Sie, 
I  HAVE  partly  changed  my  ideas,  my  dear 
friend,  since  I  saw  you.  I  took  old  Glenconner 
with  me  to  Mr.  Miller's  farm,  and  he  was  so 
pleased  with  it,  that  I  have  wrote  an  offer  to 
Mr.  Miller,  which,  if  he  accepts,  I  shall  sit  down 
a  plain  farmer,  the  happiest  of  lives  when  a  man 
can  live  by  it      In  this  case  I  shall  not  stay  in 


Edinburgh  above  a  week.  I  set  out  on  Monday, 
and  would  have  come  by  Kilmarnock,  but  there 
are  several  small  sums  owing  me  for  my  first 
edition  about  Galston  and  Newmilis,  and  I  shall 
set  off  so  early  as  to  dispatch  my  business,  and 
reach  Glasgow  by  night.  When  I  return,  I 
shall  devote  a  forenoon  or  two  to  make  some 
kind  of  acknowledgment  for  all  the  kindness  I 
owe  your  friendship.  Now  that  I  hope  to  settle 
with  some  credit  and  comfort  at  home,  there 
was  not  any  friendship  or  friendly  correspon- 
dence that  promised  me  more  pleasure  than 
yours  ;  I  hope  I  will  not  be  disappointed.  I 
trust  the  spring  will  renew  your  shattered  frame, 
and  make  your  friends  happy.  You  and  I  have 
often  agreed  that  life  is  no  great  blessing  on  the 
whole.  The  close  of  life,  indeed,  to  a  reasoning 
eye,  is, 

"  Dark  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
AVas  roll'd  together,  or  had  try'd  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound. "^ 

But  an  honest  man  has  nothing  to  fear.  If 
we  lie  down  in  the  grave,  the  whole  man  a  piece 
of  broken  machinery,  to  moulder  with  the  clods 
of  the  valley,  be  it  so  ;  at  least  there  is  an  end 
of  pain,  care,  woes,  and  wants :  if  that  part  of  us 
called  mind  does  survive  the  apparent  destruc- 
tion of  the  man — away  with  old-wife  prejudices 
and  tales  !  Every  age  and  every  nation  has  had 
a  different  set  of  stories  ;  and  as  the  many  are 
always  weak,  of  consequence,  they  have  often, 
perhaps  always,  been  deceived  ;  a  man  conscious 
of  having  acted  an  honest  part  among  his  fellow- 
creatures — even  granting  that  he  may  have 
been  the  sport  at  times  of  passions  and  instincts 
— he  goes  to  a  great  unknown  Being,  who  could 
have  no  other  end  in  giving  him  existence  but 
to  make  him  happy,  who  gave  him  those  pas- 
sions and  instincts,  and  well  knows  their  force. 

These,  my  worthy  friend,  are  my'ideas  ;  and 
I  know  they  are  not  far  different  from  yours. 
It  becomes  a  man  of  sense  to  think  for  himself, 
particularly  in  a  case  where  all  men  are  equally" 
interested,  and  where,  indeed,  all  men  are  equally 
in  the  dark. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir;  God  send  us  a  cheerful 
meeting!  R.  B. 

1  Blair's  Grave. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


37b 


CVIII. 

TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[One  of  the  daughters  of  Mrs.  Dunlop  painted  a  sketch 
[»f  r-^la  from  Burns's  poem  of  the  Vision:  it  is  still  in 
existence,  and  is  said  to  have  merit.] 

Mossgiel,  llth  March,  1788. 
Madam, 

TnR  last  paragraph  in  yours  of  the  30th  Fe- 
Diaary  aflFected  me  most,  so  I  shall  begin  my 
answer  whore  you  ended  your  letter.  That  I 
am  often  a  sinner  with  any  little  wit  I  have,  I 
do  confess :  but  I  have  taxed  my  recollection  to 
no  purpose,  to  find  out  when  it  was  employed 
against  you.  I  hate  an  ungenerous  sarcasm  a 
great  deal  worse  than  I  do  the  devil ;  at  least 
as  Milton  describes  him ;  and  though  I  may  be 
rascally  enough  to  be  sometimes  guilty  of  it  my- 
self, I  cannot  endure  it  in  others.  You,  my 
honoured  friend,  who  cannot  appear  in  any  light 
but  you  are  sure  of  being  respectable — you  can 
aflFord  to  pass  by  an  occasion  to  display  your 
wit,  because  you  may  depend  for  fame  on  your 
sense ;  or,  if  you  choose  to  be  silent,  you  know 
you  can  rely  on  the  gratitude  of  many,  and  the 
esteem  of  all ;  but,  God  help  us,  who  are  wits 
or  witlings  by  profession,  if  we  stand  not  for 
fame  there,  we  sink  unsupported ! 

I  am  highly  flattered  by  the  news  you  tell  me 
of  Coila.  I  may  say  to  the  fair  painter  who 
does  me  so  much  honour,  as  Dr.  Seattle  says  to 
Ross  the  poet  of  his  muse  Scota,  from  which, 
by  the  bye,  I  took  the  idea  of  Coila  ('tis  a  poem 
of  Beattie's  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  which  per- 
haps you  have  never  seen :) — 

"  Ye  shak  your  heads,  but  o'  my  fegs, 
Ye've  set  auld  Scota  on  her  legs : 
Lang  had  she  lien  wi'  befTs  and  iiegs, 
Bumbaz'd  and  dizzie, 
Her  fiddle  wanted  strings  and  pegs. 

Wae's  me,  poor  hizzie." 
R.  B. 


CIX. 
TO   MISS  CHALMERS. 

"[The  uncouth  cares  of  which  the  poet  complains  in 
this  letter  were  the  construction  of  a  common  farm> 
house,  with  barn,  byre,  and  stable  to  suit.] 

Edinburgh,  March  14,  1788. 
I  KNOW,  my  ever  dear  friend,  that  you  will  be 
pleased  with  the  news  when  I  tell  you,  I  have 
at  last  taken  a  lease  of  a  farm.     Yesternight  I 


completed  a  bargain  with  Mr.  Miller,  of  Dal- 
swinton,  for  the  farm  of  Ellisland,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Nith,  between  five  and  six  miles  above 
Dumfries.  I  begin  at  Whit-Sunday  to  build  a 
house,  drive  lime,  &c. ;  and  heaven  be  my  help  .' 
for  it  will  take  a  strong  efi"ort  to  bring  my  mind 
into  the  routine  of  business.  I  have  discharged 
all  the  army  of  my  former  pursuits,  fancies,  and 
pleasures;  a  motley  host!  and  have  literally 
and  strictly  retained  only  the  ideas  of  a  few 
friends,  which  I  have  incorporated  into  a  life 
guard.  I  trust  in  Dr.  Johnson's  observation, 
"Where  much  is  attempted,  something  is  dene." 
Firmness,  both  in  sufferance  and  exertion,  is  a 
character  I  would  wish  to  be  thought  to  pos- 
sess: and  have  always  despised  the  whining 
yelp  of  complaint,  and  the  cowardly,  feeble  re 
solve. 

Poor  Miss  K.  is  ailing  a  good  deal  this 
winter,  and  begged  me  to  remember  her  to  you 
the  first  time  I  wrote  to  you.  Surely  woman, 
amiable  woman,  is  often  made  in  vain.  Too 
delicately  formed  for  the  rougher  pursuits  of 
ambition;  too  noble  for  the  dirt  of  avarice, 
and  even  too  gentle  for  the  rage  of  pleasure  ; 
formed  indeed  for,  and  highly  susceptible  of  en- 
joyment and  rapture;  but  that  enjoyment, 
alas !  almost  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  the  caprice, 
malevolence,  stupidity,  or  wickedness  of  an 
animal  at  all  times  comparatively  unfeeling,  and 
often  brutal.  R.  B. 


ex. 

TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

[The  excitement  referred  to  in  this  letter  arose  from 
the  dilatory  and  reluctant  movements  of  Creech,  who 
was  so  slow  in  settling  his  accounts  that  tlie  poet  bus* 
pected  his  solvency.] 

Glasgow,  26<A  March,  1788. 
I  AM  monstrously  to  blame,  my  dear  Sir,  in 
not  writing  to  you,  and  sending  you  the  Direc- 
tory. I  have  been  getting  my  tack  extended, 
as  I  have  taken  a  farm ;  and  I  have  been  rack- 
ing shop  accounts  with  Mr.  Creech,  both  of 
which,  together  with  watching,  fatigue,  and  a 
load  of  care  almost  too  heavy  for  my  shoulders, 
have  in  some  degree  actually  fevered  me.  I 
really  forgot  the  Directory  yesterday,  which 
vexed  me ;  but  I  was  convulsed  with  rage  a  great 
part  of  the  day.  I  have  to  thank  you  for  the 
ingenious,  friendly,  and  elegant  epistle  from 


37G 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


your  friend  Mr.  Crawford.  I  shall  certainly 
write  to  him,  but  not  now.  This  is  merely  a 
card  to  you,  as  I  am  posting  to  Dumfries-shire, 
where  many  perplexing  arrangements  await 
me.  I  am  vexed  about  the  Directory  ;  but,  my 
dear  Sir,  forgive  me :  these  eight  days  I  have 
been  positively  crazed.  My  compliments  to 
Mrs.  B.  I  shall  write  to  you  at  Grenada. — 
I  am  ever,  my  dearest  friend, 

Yours, — R.  B. 


CXI. 

TO    MR.    ROBERT   CLEGHORN. 

[Cleghorn  was  a  farmer,  a  social  man,  and  much  of  a 
mnsic-ian.  The  poet  wrote  the  Chevalier's  liament  to 
please  the  jacobitical  taste  of  his  friend  ;  and  the  musi- 
cian g:ive  him  advice  in  farming  which  he  neglected  to 
follow : — "  Farmer  Attention,"  saysCleghorn,  "  is  agood 
farmer  everywhere."] 

Mauchline,  31s<  March,  1788. 

Yesterday,  my  dear  Sir,  as  I  was  riding 
through  a  track  of  melancholy,  joyless  muirs, 
between  Galloway  and  Ayrshire,  it  being  Sun- 
day, I  turned  my  thoughts  to  psalms,  and 
hymns,  and  spiritual  songs ;  and  your  favour- 
ite air,  "  Captain  O'Kean,"  coming  at  length 
into  my  head,  I  tried  these  words  to  it.  You 
will  see  that  the  first  part  of  the  tune  must  be 
repeated. 

I  am  tolerably  pleased  with  these  verses,  but 
as  I  have  only  a  sketch  of  the  tune,  I  leave  it 
with  you  to  try  if  they  suit  the  measure  of  the 
music. 

I  am  so  harassed  with  care  and  anxiety,  about 
this  farming  project  of  mine,  that  my  muse  has 
degenerated  into  the  veriest  prose-wench  that 
ever  picked  cinders,  or  followed  a  tinker.  When 
I  am  fairly  got  into  the  routine  of  business,  I 
shall  trouble  you  with  a  longer  epistle  ;  perhaps 
with  some  queries  respecting  farming ;  at  pre- 
sent, the  world  sits  such  a  load  on  my  mind, 
that  it  has  efiFaced  almost  every  trace  of  the 
poet  in  me. 

My  very  best  compliments  and  good  wishes 
Ic  Mrs.  Cleghorn. 

R.  B. 


CXII. 
TO  MR.   WILLIAM   DUNBAR, 

EDINBURGH. 

[This  letter  was  printed  for  the  first  time  by  Rober 
Chambers,  in  his  "  People's  Edition"  of  Burns.] 

Mauchline,  1th  April,  1788. 

I  HAVE  not  delayed  so  long  to  write  you,  my 
much  respected  friend,  because  I  thought  no 
farther  of  my  promise.  I  have  long  since 
give  up  that  kind  of  formal  correspondence, 
where  one  sits  down  irksomely  to  write  a  let- 
ter, because  we  think  we  are  in  duty  bound  sc 
to  do. 

I  have  been  roving  over  the  country,  as  the 
farm  I  have  taken  is  forty  miles  from  this  place, 
hiring  servants  and  preparing  matters ;  but 
most  of  all  I  am  earnestly  busy  to  bring  about 
a  revolution  in  my  own  mind.  As,  till  within 
these  eighteen  months,  I  never  was  the  wealthy 
master  of  ten  guineas,  my  knowledge  of  busi- 
ness is  to  learn ;  add  to  this  my  late  scenes  of 
idleness  and  dissipation  have  enervated  my 
mind  to  an  alarming  degree.  Skill  in  the  sober 
science  of  life  is  my  most  serious  and  hourly 
study.  I  have  dropt  all  conversation  and  all 
reading  (prose  reading)  but  what  tends  in  some 
way  or  other  to  my  serious  aim.  Except  one 
worthy  young  fellow,  I  have  not  one  single 
correspondent  in  Edinburgh.  You  have  indeed 
kindly  made  me  an  offer  of  that  kind.  The 
world  of  wits,  and  gens  comme  il  faut  which  I 
lately  left,  and  with  whom  I  never  again  will 
intimately  mix — from  that  port.  Sir,  I  expect 
your  Gazette :  what  les  beaux  esprits  are  saying, 
what  they  are  doing,  and  what  they  are  sing- 
ing. Any  sober  intelligence  from  my  seques- 
tered walks  of  life ;  any  droll  original ;  any 
passing  reward,  important  forsooth,  because  it 
is  mine ;  any  little  poetic  effort,  however  em- 
bryoth ;  these,  my  dear  Sir,  are  all  you  have 
to  expect  from  me.  When  I  talk  of  poetic 
efforts,  I  must  have  it  always  understood,  that 
I  appeal  from  your  wit  and  taste  to  your  friend- 
ship and  good  nature.  The  first  would  be  my 
favourite  tribunal,  where  I  defied  censure  ;  but 
the  last,  where  I  declined  justice. 

I  have  scarcely  made  a  single  distich  since 
I  saw  you.  When  I  meet  with  an  old  Scots  air 
that  has  any  facetious  idea  in  its  name,  I  have 
a  peculiar  pleasure  in  following  out  that  idea  foi 
a  verse  or  two. 

I  trust  that  this  will  find  you  in  better  health 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


377 


than  I  did  last  time  I  called  for  you.  A  few 
lines  from  you,  directed  to  me  at  Mauchline, 
were  it  but  lo  let  me  know  how  you  are,  will 
Bet  my  mind  a  good  deal  [at  rest.]  Now,  never 
shun  the  idea  of  writing  me  because  perhaps 
yo\;  may  be  out  of  humour  or  spirits.  I  could 
g've  you  a  hundred  good  consequences  attend- 
iig  *  dull  letter;  one,  for  example,  and  the  re- 
maining ninety-iftne  some  other  time — it  will 
always  serve  to  keep  in  countenance,  my  much 
respected  Sir,  your  obliged  friend  and  humble 
servant,  R.  B. 


CXIII. 
TO   MISS  CHALMERS. 

[The  sacrifice  referred  to  by  the  poet,  was  his  resolu- 
tion to  unite  his  fortune  with  Jean  Armour.] 

Mauchline,  1th  April,*  178S. 

I  AM  indebted  to  you  and  Miss  Nimmo  for 
letting  me  know  Miss  Kennedy.  Strange !  how 
apt  we  are  to  indulge  prejudices  in  our  judg- 
ments of  one  another !  Even  I,  who  pique  my- 
self on  my  skill  in  marking  characters — because 
I  am  too  proud  of  my  character  as  a  man,  to  be 
dazzled  in  my  judgment  for  glaring  wealth ; 
and  too  proud  of  my  situation  as  a  poor  man 
to  be  biassed  against  squalid  poverty — I  was 
unacquainted  with  Miss  K.'s  very  uncommon 
worth. 

I  am  going  on  a  good  deal  progressive  in  mon 
grand  but,  the  sober  science  of  life.  I  have 
lately  made  some  sacrifices,  for  which,  were  I 
vivH  voce  with  you  to  paint  the  situation  and  re- 
count the  circumstances,  you  should  applaud 
me.  R.  B. 


CXIV. 

TO   MISS   CHALMERS. 

'Tlie  hint  alluded  to,  was  a  whisper  of  the  insolvency 
a,!  Jraech ;  but  the  bailie  was  firm  as  the  Bass.] 

No  date. 
Now  for  that  wayward,  unfortunate  thing,  my- 
self. I  have  broke  measures  with  Creech,  and 
last  week  I  wrote  him  a  frosty,  keen  letter.  He 
replied  in  terms  of  chastisement,  and  promised 
me  upon  his  honour  that  I  should  have  the  ac- 
count on  Monday ;  but  this  is  Tuesday,  and  yet 
I  have  not  heard  a  word  from  him.  God  have 
mercy  on  me !  a  poor  d-mned,  incautious,  duped, 


unfortunate  fool !  The  sport,  the  miserable 
victim  of  rebellious  pride,  hypochondriac  ima- 
gination, agonizing  sensibility,  and  bedlam  pas- 
sions ? 

"  I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to 
die!"  I  had  lately  "a  hairbreadth  'scope  in  th' 
imminent  deadly  breach"  of  love  too.  Tliank 
my  stars,  I  got  off  heart-whole,  "  waur  fleyd  than 
hurt. " — Interruption. 

I  have  this  moment  got  a  hint :  I  fear  I  am 
something  like  —  undone — but  I  hope  for  the 
best.  Come,  stubborn  pride  and  unshrinking 
resolution ;  accompany  me  through  this,  to  me, 
miserable  world !  You  must  not  desert  me  I 
Your  friendship  I  think  I  can  count  on,  though  I 
should  date  my  letters  from  a  marching  regiment. 
Early  in  life,  and  all  my  life  I  reckoned  on  a 
recruiting  drum  as  my  forlorn  hope.  Seriously 
though,  life  at  present  presents  me  with  but  a 
melancholy  path :  but — my  limb  will  soon  be 
sound,  and  I  shall  struggle  on. 

R.  B 


CXV. 

TO   MISS   CHALMERS. 

[Although  Burns  gladly  grasped  at  a  situation  in  tb« 
Excise,  he  wrote  many  apologies  to  his  friends,  for  th« 
acceptance  of  a  place,  which,  though  humble  enough, 
was  the  only  one  that  offered.] 

Edinburgh,  Sunday. 
To-morrow,  my  dear  madam,  I  leave  Edin- 
burgh. I  have  altered  all  my  plans  of  future 
life.  A  farm  that  I  could  live  in,  I  could  not 
find ;  and,  indeed,  after  the  necessary  support 
my  brother  and  the  rest  of  the  family  required, 
I  could  not  venture  on  farming  in  that  style 
suitable  to  my  feelings.  You  will  condemn  me 
for  the  next  step  I  have  taken.  I  have  entered 
into  the  Excise.  I  stay  in  the  west  about  three 
weeks,  and  then  return  to  Edinburgh,  for  six 
weeks'  instructions:  afterwards,  for  I  get  em- 
ploy instantly,  I  go  oii  il  plait  d  Dieu, — et  mon 
Roi.  I  have  chosen  this,  my  dear  friend,  after 
mature  deliberation.  The  question  is  not  at 
what  door  of  fortune's  palace  shall  we  enter 
in ;  but  what  doors  does  she  open  to  us  ?  I  was 
not  likely  to  get  anything  to  do.  I  wanted  wi 
bdt,  which  is  a  dangerous,  an  unhappy  situa- 
tion. I  got  this  without  any  hanging  on,  or 
mortifying  solicitation  ;  it  is  immediate  bread, 
and  though  poor  in  comparison  of  the  last  eigh- 
teen months  of  my  existence,  'tis  luxury  in  com 


878 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


parison  of  all  my  preceding  life:  besides,  the 
commissioners  are  some  of  them  my  acquaint- 
ances, and  all  of  them  my  firm  friends. 

K.  B. 


CXVI. 
TO   MRS.   DUN  LOP. 

[The  Tasso,  with  the  perusal  of  which  Mrs.  Dun.op 
indulged  the  poet,  was  not  the  fine  version  of  Fairfax, 
but  the  translation  of  Hoole — a  far  inferior  performance.] 

Mauchline,  2Sth  April,  1788. 
Madam, 

Your  powers  of  reprehension  must  be  great 
indeed,  as  I  assure  you  they  made  my  heart 
ache  with  penitential  pangs,  even  though  I  was 
really  not  guilty.  As  I  commence  farmer  at 
Whit-Sunday,  you  will  easily  guess  I  must  be 
pretty  busy;  but  that  is  not  all.  As  I  got  the 
offer  of  the  Excise  business  without  solicitation, 
and  as  it  costs  me  only  six  months'  attendance 
for  instructions,  to  entitle  me  to  a  commission 
— which  commission  lies  by  me,  and  at  any 
future  period,  on  my  simple  petition,  can  be  re- 
sumed— I  thought  five-and-thirty  pounds  a-year 
was  no  bad  dernier  ressort  for  a  poor  poet,  if  for- 
tune in  her  jade  tricks  should  kick  him  down 
from  the  little  eminence  to  which  she  has  lately 
helped  him  up. 

For  this  reason,  I  am  at  present  attending 
these  instructions,  to  have  them  completed  be- 
fore Whit-sunday.  Still,  Madam,  I  prepared 
with  the  sincerest  pleasure  to  meet  you  at  the 
Mount,  and  came  to  my  brother's  on  Saturday 
night,  to  set  out  on  Sunday  ;  but  for  some  nights 
preceding  I  had 'slept  in  an  apartment,  where 
the  force  of  the  winds  and  rains  was  only  miti- 
gated by  being  sifted  through  numberless  aper- 
tures in  the  windows,  walls,  &c.  In  consequence 
1  was  on  Sunday,  Monday,  and  part  of  Tuesday, 
unable  to  stir  out  of  bed,  with  all  the  miserable 
effects  of  a  violent  cold. 

,  Yju  see.  Madam,  the  truth  of  the  French 
maxim,  le  vrai  n^ est  pas  toujours  le  vraisemblable ; 
your  last  was  so  full  of  expostulation,  and  was 
sometliing  so  like  the  language  of  an  offended 
friend,  that  I  began  to  tremble  for  a  correspon- 
dence, which  I  had  with  grateful  pleasure  set 
down  as  one  of  the  greatest  enjoyments  of  my 
future  life. 


Your  books  have  delighted  me:  Virgil,  Dry- 
den,  and  Tasso  were  all  equally  strangers  to  me ; 
but  of  this  more  at  large  in  my  next. 

R.  B. 


CXVII. 
TO   MR.   JAMES   SMITH, 

AVON   PEINTFIELD,    LINLITHGOW. 

[James  Snath,  as  this  letter  intimates,  bad  moved  from 
Mauchline  to  try  to  mend  his  fortunes  at  Avon  Printfield, 
near  Linlithgow.] 

Mauchline,  April  28,  1788. 

Beware  of  your  Strasburgh,  my  good  Sir! 
Look  on  this  as  the  opening  of  a  correspon- 
dence, like  the  opening  of  a  twenty-four  gun 
battery ! 

There  is  no  understanding  a  man  properly, 
without  knowing  something  of  his  previous 
ideas  (that  is  to  say,  if  the  man  has  any  ideas; 
for  I  know  many  who,  in  the  animal-muster, 
pass  for  men,  that  are  the  scanty  masters  of 
only  one  idea  on  any  given  subject,  and  by  far 
the  greatest  part  of  your  acquaintances  and 
mine  can  barely  boast  of  ideas,  1.25 — 1.5 — 1.75 
or  some  such  fractional  matter;)  so  to  let  you 
a  little  into  the  secrets  of  my  pericranium,  there 
is,  you  must  know,  a  certain  clean-limbed, 
handsome,  bewitching  young  hussy  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, to  whom  I  have  lately  and  pri- 
vately given  a  matrimonial  title  to  my  corpus. 

"  Bode  a  robe  and  wear  it, 
Bode  a  pock  and  bear  it," 

says  the  wise  old  Scots  adage  !  I  hate  to  pre- 
sage ill-luck ;  and  as  my  girl  has  been  doubly 
kinder  to  me  than  even  the  best  of  women 
usually  are  to  their  partners  of  our  sex,  in 
similar  circumstances,  I  reckon  on  twelve  times 
a  brace  of  children  against  I  celebrate  my 
twelfth  wedding-day:  these  twenty-four  will 
give  me  twenty-four  gossipings,  twenty-four 
christenings  (I  mean  one  equal  to  two),  and  1 
hope,  by  the  blessing  of  the  God  of  my  fathers, 
to  make  them  twenty-four  dutiful  children  to 
their  parents,  twenty-four  useful  members  of 
society,  and  twenty-four  approved  servants  of 
their  God  !  *  *  * 

"  Light's  heartsome,"  quo'  the  wife  when  sh« 
was  stealing  sheep.  You  see  what  a  lamp  I 
have  hung  up  to  lighten  your  paths,  when  you 
are  idle  enough  to  explore  the  combinations  an4 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


37y 


relations  of  my  ideas.  'Tis  now  as  plain  as  a 
pike-statf,  why  a  twenty-four  gun  battery  was 
a  metaphor  I  could  readily  employ. 

Now  for  business.— I  intend  to  present  Mrs. 
Burns  with  a  printed  shawl,  an  article  of  which 
1  dare  say  you  have  variety :  'tis  my  first  pre- 
eent  to  her  since  I  have  irrevocably  called  her 
mine,  and  I  have  a  kind  of  whimsical  wish  to 
get  her  the  first  said  present  from  an  old  and 
much-valued  friend  of  hers  and  mine,  a  trusty 
Trojan,  on  whose  friendship  I  count  myself  pos- 
sessed of  as  a  life-rent  lease. 

Look  on  this  letter  as  a  "beginning  of  sor- 
rows ;"  I  will  write  you  till  your  eyes  ache  read- 
ing nonsense. 

Mrs.  Burns  ('tis  only  her  private  designation) 
begs  her  best  compliments  to  you. 

**  R.  B. 


CXVIII. 

TO  PROFESSOR  DUGALD   STEWART. 

[Dugald  Stewart  loved  the  poet,  admired  his  works, 
and  enriched  the  biography  of  Currie  with  some  genuine 
reminiscences  of  his  earlier  days.] 


Mauchline,  Zd  May,  V 


Sir, 


I  ENCLOSE  you  one  or  two  more  of  my  baga- 
telles. If  the  fervent  wishes  of  honest  grati- 
tude have  any  influence  with  that  great  unknown 
being  who  frames  the  chain  of  causes  and  events, 
prosperity  and  happiness  will  attend  your  visits 
to  the  continent,  and  return  you  safe  to  your 
native  shore. 

Wherever  I  am,  allow  me.  Sir,  to  claim  it  as 
my  privilege  to  acquaint  you  with  my  progress 
in  my  trade  of  rhymes ;  as  I  am  sure  I  could 
say  it  with  truth,  that  next  to  my  little  fame, 
and  the  having  it  in  my  power  to  make  life  more 
comfortable  to  those  whom  nature  has  made 
dear  to  me,  I  shall  ever  regard  your  counte- 
nance, your  patronage,  your  friendly  good 
offices,  as  the  most  valued  consequence  of  my 
late  success  in  life.  ^-  ^' 


been  more  friendly  he  might  have,  in  due  time,  produce* 
it.] 

MaucUine,  Ath  May,  1788. 
Madam, 
Dryden'8  Virgil  has  delighted  me.    I  do  not 
know  whether  the  critics  will  agree  with  me 
but  the  Georgics  are  to  me  by  far  the  best  of 
Virgil.     It  is  indeed  a  species  of  writing  en 
tirely  new  to  me;  and  has  filled  my  head  with 
a  thousand  fancies  of  emulation:    but,   alas! 
when  I  read  the  Georgics,  and  then  survey  my 
own  powers,  'tis  like   the  idea  of  a  Shetlanci 
pony,  drawn  up  by  the  side  of  a  thorough-bred 
hunter  to  start  for  the  plate.     I  own  I  am  dis 
appointed  in  the  .Eneid.     Faultless  correctness 
may  please,  and  does  highly  please,  the  letterea 
critic  :  but  to  that  awful  character  I  have  not 
the  most  distant  pretensions.     I  do  not  know 
whether  I  do  not  hazard  my  pretensions  to  be 
a  critic  of  any  kind,  «when  I  say  that  I  think 
Virgil,  in  many  instances,  a  servile  copier  of 
Homer.     If  I  had  the  Odyssey  by  me,  I  could 
parallel  many  passages  where  Virgil  has  ev'- 
dently  copied,  but  by  no  means  improved,  Ho 
mer.     Nor  can  I  think  there  is  anything  of  this 
owing  to  the  translators ;  for,  from  everything 
I  have  seen  of  Dryden,  I  think  him  in  genius 
and  fluency  of  language.  Pope's  master.    I  have 
not  perused  Tasso  enough  to  form  an  opinion : 
in  some  future  letter,  you  shall  have  my  ideaa 
of  him ;  though  I  am  conscious  my  criticisms 
must  be  very  inaccurate  and  imperfect,  as  there 
I  have  ever  felt  and  lamented  my  want  of  learn- 

■R       T> 

ing  most.  ^*  "' 


CXIX. 
TO  MRS.   DUNLOP. 

FA  poem,  something  after  the  fashion  of  the  Georgics, 
m^  long  p-ewnt  to  the  mind  of  Burns:  had  fortune 


cxx. 

TO  MR.    ROBERT   AINSLIE. 

[I  have  heard  the  genilemnn  say,  to  whom  this  bnel 
letter  is  addressed,  h..w  much  he  was  pleased  with  th« 
intimation,  that  the  poet  had  reunited  himself  w.th  Jear 
Armour,  for  he  knew  his  heart  was  with  h«r.] 

Mauchline,  May  26,  1788. 
My  deak  Friend, 
I  AM  two  kind  letters  in  your  debt,  but  I  hav* 
been  from  home,  and  horribly  busy,  buying  and 
preparing  for  my  farming  business,  over  and 
above  the  plague  of  my  Excise  instructions, 
which  this  week  will  finish. 

As  I  flatter  my  wishes  that  I  foresee  many 
future  years'  correspondence  between  us,  'Us 


880 


GENEliAL  CORRESPONDENCE 


foolish  to  talk  of  excusing  dull  epistles ;  a  dull 
letter  may  be  a  very  kind  one.  I  have  the 
pleasure  to  tell  you  that  I  have  been  extremely 
furtnn.'ite  in  all  my  buyings,  and  bargainings 
hitherto  ;  Mrs.  Burns  not  excepted  ;  which  title 
I  now  avow  to  the  world.  I  am  truly  pleased 
with  this  last  aflFair:  it  has  indeed  added  to  my 
anxieties  for  futurity,  but  it  has  given  a  stabi- 
lity to  my  mind,  and  resolutions  unknown  be- 
fore ;  and  the  poor  girl  lias  the  most  sacred 
enthusiasm  of  attachment  to  me,  and  has  not  a 
wish  but  to  gratify  my  every  idea  of  her  deport- 
ment. I  am  interrupted. — Farewell !  my  dear 
Sir.  R.  B. 


CXXI. 
TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[This  letter,  on  the  hiring  season,  is  well  worth  the 
consideration  of  all  masters,  and  all  servants.  In  Eng- 
land, servants  are  engaged  by  the  month  ;  in  Scotland  by 
the  half-year,  and  therefore  less  at  the  mercy  of  the 
changeable  and  capricious.] 

27iA  May,  1788. 
Madam, 

I  HAVE  been  torturing  my  philosophy  to  no 
purpose,  to  account  for  that  kind  partiality  of 
yours,  which  has  followed  me,  in  my  return  to 
the  shade  of  life,  with  assiduous  benevolence. 
Often  did  I  regret,  in  the  fleeting  hours  of  my 
late  will-o'-wisp  appearance,  that  "  here  I  had 
no  continuing  city  ;"  and  but  for  the  consolation 
of  a  few  solid  guineas,  could  almost  lament  the 
time  that  a  momentary  acquaintance  with  wealth 
and  splendour  put  me  so  much  out  of  conceit 
with  the  sworn  companions  of  my  road  through 
life — insignificance  and  poverty. 

There  are  few  circumstances  relating  to  the 
unequal  distribution  of  the  good  things  of  this 
life  that  give  me  more  vexation  (I  mean  in  what 
I  see  around  me)  than  the  importance  the 
opulent  bestow  on  their  trifling  family  afi'airs, 
compared  with  the  very  same  things  on  the  con- 
tract(  d  scale  of  a  cottage.  Last  afternoon  I  had 
the  honour  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  at  a  good 
woman's  fireside,  where  the  planks  that  com- 
posed the  floor  were  decorated  with  a  splendid 
carpet,  and  the  gay  table  sparkled  with  silver 
and  china.  'Tis  now  about  term-day,  and  there 
has  been  a  revolution  among  those  creatures, 


who  though  in  appearance  partakers,  and  equally 
noble  partakers,  of  the  same  nature  with  Ma- 
dame, are  from  time  to  time — their  nerves, 
their  sinews,  their  health,  strength,  wisdom, 
experience,  genius,  time,  nay  a  good  part  of 
their  very  thoughts — sold  for  months  and  years, 
not  only  to  the  necessities,  the  conveniencies, 
but,  the  caprices  of  the  important  few.  We 
talked  of  the  insignificant  creatures;  nay,  not- 
withstanding their  general  stupidity  and  ras- 
cality, did  some  of  the  poor  devils  the  honour  to 
commend  them.  But  light  be  the  turf  upon  his 
breast  who  taught  "  Reverence  thyself  I"  We 
looked  down  on  the  unpolished  wretches,  their 
impertinent  wives  and  clouterly  brats,  as  the 
lordly  bull  does  on  the  little  dirty  ant-hill,  whose 
puny  inhabitants  he  crushes  in  the  carelessness 
of  his  ramble,  or  tosses  in  the  air  in  the  wanton- 
ness of  his  pride.  R.  B. 


CXXII. 
TO   MRS.    DUNLOP, 

AT   MR.    DUNLOP'S,    HADDINGTOK- 

[In  this,  the  poet's  first  letter  from  Ellisland,  he  lays 
down  his  whole  system  of  in-door  and  out-door  economy : 
while  his  wife  took  care  of  the  household,  he  was  tc 
manage  the  farm,  and  "  pen  a  stanza"  during  his  hours 
of  leisure.] 

Ellisland,  ISth  June,  1788. 

"Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  I  see, 
My  heart,  untravell'd,  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 
Still  to  my  friend  it  turns  with  ceaseless  pain. 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain." 
Goldsmith. 

This  is  the  second  day,  my  honoured  friend, 
that  I  have  been  on  my  farm.  A  solitary  in- 
mate of  an  old  smoky  spense ;  far  from  every 
object  I  love,  or  by  whom  I  am  beloved ;  nor 
any  acquaintance  older  than  yesterday,  except 
Jenny  Geddes,  the  old  mare  I  ride  on ;  while 
uncouth  cares  and  novel  plans  hourly  insult  my 
awkward  ignorance  and  bashful  inexperience. 
There  is  a  foggy  atmosphere  native  to  my  soul 
in  the  hour  of  care ;  consequently  the  dreary 
objects  seem  larger  than  the  life.  Extreme 
sensibility,  irritated  and  prejudiced  on  the 
gloomy  side  by  a  series  of  misfortunes  and  dis- 
appointments, at  that  period  of  my  existence 
when  the  soul  is  laying  in  her  cargo  of  ideas  for 
the  voyage  of  life,  is,  I  believe,  the  principal 
cause  of  this  unhappy  frame  of  mind. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS 


381 


"  The  valiant,  'n  himcelf,  what  can  he  sufler? 
Or  wliat  neea  he  regard  his  single  woes?"  &c. 

Your  surmise,  Madam,  is  just ;  I  am  indeed 
%  husband. 

*  *  *  * 

To  jealousy  or  infidelity  I  am  an  equal  stran- 
ger. My  preservative  from  the  first  is  the  most 
thorough  consciousness  of  her  sentiments  of 
honour,  and  her  attachment  to  me:  my  antidote 
against  the  last  is  my  long  and  deep-rooted  aff'ec- 
tion  for  her. 

Ill  housewife  matters,  of  aptness  to  learn  and 
activity  to  execute,  she  is  eminently  mistress; 
and  during  my  absence  in  Nithsdale,  she  is  re- 
gularly and  constantly  apprentice  to  my  mo- 
ther and  sisters  in  their  dairy  and  other  rural 
business. 

The  muses  must  not  be  ofi"ended  when  I  tell 
them,  the  concerns  of  my  wife  and  family  will, 
in  my  mind,  always  take  the  pas;  but  I  assure 
them  their  ladyships  will  ever  come  next  in 
place. 

You  are  right  that  a  bachelor  state  would  have 
insured  me  more  friends  ;  but,  from  a  cause  you 
will  easily  guess,  conscious  peace  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  my  own  mind,  and  unmistrusting  con- 
fidence in  approaching  my  God,  would  seldom 
have  been  of  the  number. 

I  found  a  once  much-loved  and  still  much- 
loved  female,  literally  and  truly  cast  out  to  the 
mercy  of  the  naked  elements;  but  I  enabled 
her  to  purchase  a  shelter; — there  is  no  sporting 
with  a  fellow-creature's  happiness  or  misery. 

The  most  placid  good-nature  and  sweetness 
of  disposition;  a  warm  heart,  gratefully  de- 
voted with  all  its  powers  to  love  me ;  vigorous 
health  and  sprightly  cheerfulness,  set  oflF  to  the 
best  advantage  by  a  more  than  commonly  hand- 
some figure;  these,  I  think,  in  a  woman,  may 
make  a  good  wife,  though  she  should  never 
have  read  a  page  but  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old 
and  New  Testament,  nor  have  danced  in  a 
brighter  assembly  than  a  penny  pay-wedding. 

R.  B. 


cxxm. 

TO  ROBERT   AINSLIE,  ESQ. 

[Had  Bums  written  his  fine  song,  beginning  "Con- 
tented wi'  little  and  cnntie  wi'  mnir. "  when  he  penned 
this  letter,  the  prose  might  have  followed  as  a  note  to 
^le  verse  :  he  r*ulls  the  Excise  a  luxury.] 


Ellisland,  June  Wlh,  1788. 

This  is  now  the  third  day,  my  dearest  Sir, 
that  I  have  sojourned  in  these  regions;  and 
during  these  three  days  you  have  occupied  more 
of  my  thoughts  than  in  three  weeks  preceding: 
in  Ayrshire  I  have  several  variations  of  friend- 
ship's compass,  here  it  points  invariably  to  the 
pole.  My  farm  gives  me  a  good  many  uncouth 
cares  and  anxieties,  but  I  hate  the  language  of 
complaint.  Job,  or  some  one  of  his  friends, 
says  well — "  why  should  a  living  man  com 
plain  ?" 

I  have  lately  been  much  mortified  with  con 
templating  an  unlucky  imperfection  in  the  very 
framing  and  construction  of  my  soul  ;  namely, 
a  blundering  inaccuracy  of  her  olfactory  organs 
in  hitting  the  scent  of  craft  or  design  in  my  fel- 
low-creatures. I  do  not  mean  any  compliment 
to  my  ingenuousness,  or  to  hint  that  the  defect 
is  in  consequence  of  the  unsuspicious  simplicity 
of  conscious  truth  and  honour :  I  take  it  to  be, 
in  some  way  or  other,  an  imperfection  in  the 
mental  sight;  or,  metaphor  apart,  some  modi- 
fication of  dulness.  In  two  or  three  small  in- 
stances lately,  I  have  been  most  shamefully 
out. 

I  have  all  along  hitherto,  in  the  warfare  of 
life,  been  bred  to  arms  among  the  light-horse — ■ 
the  piquet-guards  of  fancy ;  a  kind  of  hussars 
and  Highlanders  of  the  brain ;  but  I  am  firmly 
resolved  to  sell  out  of  these  giddy  battalions, 
who  have  no  ideas  of  a  battle  but  fighting  the 
foe,  or  of  a  siege  but  storming  the  town.  Cost 
what  it  will,  I  am  determined  to  buy  in  among 
the  grave  squadrons  of  heavy-armed  thought,  or 
the  artillery  corps  of  plodding  contrivance. 

What  books  are  you  reading,  or  what  is  the 
subject  of  your  thoughts,  besides  the  great  stu- 
dies of  your  profession?  You  said  something 
about  religion  in  your  last.  I  don't  exactly  re- 
member what  it  was,  as  the  letter  is  in  Ayr- 
shire ;  but  I  thought  it  not  only  prettily  said, 
but  nobly  thought.  You  will  make  a  noble  fel- 
low if  once  you  were  married.  I  make  no  reser- 
vation of  your  being  well-married :  you  have  so 
much  sense,  and  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
that  though  you  may  not  realize  perhaps  the 
ideas  of  romance,  yet  you  will  never  be  ill-mar- 
ried. 

Were  it  not  for  the  terrors  of  my  ticklish  situ- 
ation respecting  provision  for  a  family  of  chil- 
dren, I  am  decidedly  of  opinion  that  the  step  1 
have  taken  is  vastly  for  my  happiness.    As  it  is, 


382 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


I  look  to  the  Excise  scheme  as  a  certainty  of 
maintenance  ! — luxury  to  what  either  Mrs.  Burns 
or  I  were  born  to. 

Adieu. 

R.  B. 


CXXIV. 

TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  ESQ. 

[The  kindness  of  Field,  the  profilist,  has  not  only  in- 
dlui<,'ed  me  with  a  look  at  the  original,  from  which  the 
profile  alluded  to  in  the  letter  was  taken,  but  has  put  me 
in  possession  of  a  capital  copy.] 

MaucJiUne,  2Sd  June,  1788. 
This  letter,  my  dear  Sir,  is  only  a  business 
scrap.  Mr.  Miers,  profile  painter  in  your  town, 
has  executed  a  profile  of  Dr.  Blacklock  for  me : 
do  me  the  favour  to  call  for  it,  and  sit  to  him 
yourself  for  me,  which  put  in  the  same  size  as 
the  doctor's.  The  account  of  both  profiles  will 
be  fifteen  shillings,  which  I  have  given  to  James 
Connell,  our  Mauchliue  carrier,  to  pay  you  when 
you  give  him  the  parcel.  You  must  not,  my 
friend,  refuse  to  sit.  The  time  is  short:  when  I 
Bat  to  Mr.  Miers,  I  am  sure  he  did  not  exceed 
two  minutes.  I  propose  hanging  Lord  Glencairn, 
the  Doctor,  and  you  in  trio  over  my  new  chim- 
ney-piece that  is  to  be. 

Adieu. 

R.  B. 


CXXV. 

TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  ESQ. 

["  There  is  a  degree  of  folly,"  says  Burns  in  this  let- 
ter, "  in  talking  unnecessarily  of  one's  private  affairs." 
The  folly  is  scarcely  less  to  write  about  them,  and  much 
did  tlie  poet  and  his  friend  write  about  their  own  private 
aff'ii'.s  as  well  as  those  of  others.] 

Ellisland,  June  ^^th,  1788. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  JUST  now  received  your  brief  epistle ;  and, 
to  take  vengeance  on  your  laziness,  I  have,  you 
see,  taken  a  long  sheet  of  writing-paper,  and 
have  begun  at  the  top  of  the  page,  intending  to 
scribble  on  to  the  very  last  corner. 

I  am  vexed  at  that  aflFair  of  the  *  *  *,  but 
liare  not  enlarge  on  the  subject  until  you  send 
ttie  your  direction,  as  I  suppose  that  will  be  al- 
tered on  your  late  master  and  friend's  death.     I 


am  concerned  for  the  old  fellow's  exit,  only  as 
I  fear  it  may  be  to  your  disadvantage  in  any 
respect — for  an  old  man's  dying,  except  he  has 
been  a  very  benevolent  character,  or  in  soma 
particular  situation  of  life  that  the  welfare 
of  the  poor  or  the  helpless  depended  on  him, 
I  think  it  an  event  of  the  most  trifling  moment 
in  the  world.  Man  is  naturally  a  kind,  benevo- 
lent animal,  but  he  is  dropped  into  such  a  needy 
situation  here  in  this  vexatious  world,  and  has 
such  a  whoreson  hungry,  growling,  multiplying 
pack  of  necessities,  appetites,  passions,  and 
desires  about  him,  ready  to  devour  him  for 
want  of  other  food ;  that  in  fact  he  must  lay 
aside  his  cares  for  others  that  he  may  look  pro- 
perly to  himself.  You  have  been  imposed  upon 
in  paying  Mr.  Miers  for  the  profile  of  a  Mr.  H. 
I  did  not  mention  it  in  my  letter  to  you,  nor 
did  I  ever  give  Mr,  Miers  any  such  order.  I 
have  no  objection  to  lose  the  money,  but  I  will 
not  have  any  such  profile  in  my  possession. 

I  desired  the  carrier  to  pay  you,  but  as  I  men- 
tioned only  fifteen  shillings  to  him,  I  would  ra- 
ther enclose  you  a  guinea  note.  I  have  it  not, 
indeed,  to  spare  here,  as  I  am  only  a  sojourner 
in  a  strange  land  in  this  place  ;  but  in  a  day  or 
two  I  return  to  Mauchline,  and  there  I  have 
the  bank-notes  through  the  house  like  salt  per- 
mits. 

There  is  a  great  degree  of  folly  in  talking  un- 
necessarily of  one's  private  affairs.  I  have  just 
now  been  interrupted  by  one  of  my  new  neigh- 
bours, who  has  made  himself  absolutely  con- 
temptible in  my  eyes,  by  his  silly  garrulous  pru- 
riency. I  know  it  has  been  a  fault  of  my  own, 
too ;  but  from  this  moment  I  abjure  it,  as  I 
would  the  service  of  hell !  Your  poets,  spend- 
thrifts, and  other  fools  of  that  kidney,  pretend 
forsooth  to  crack  their  jokes  on  prudence  ;  but 
'tis  a  squalid  vagabond  glorying  in  his  rags. 
Still,  imprudence  respecting  money  matters  is 
much  more  pardonable  than  imprudence  respect- 
ing character.  I  have  no  objection  to  prefer 
prodigality  to  avarice,  in  some  few  instances ; 
but  I  appeal  to  your  observation,  if  you  have 
not  met,  and  often  met,  with  the  same  disingenu- 
ousness,.  the  same  hollow-hearted  insincerity, 
and  disintegritive  depravity  of  principle,  in  the 
hackneyed  victims  of  profusion,  as  in  the  un- 
feeling children  of  parsimony.  I  have  every 
possible  reverence  for  the  much-talked-of  world 
beyond  the  grave,  and  I  wish  that  which  piety 
believes,  and  virtue  deserves,  may  be  all  matter 
of  fact.     But  in  things  belonging  to,  and   ter* 


OF   EOBEKT   BURNS. 


353 


minating  in  this  present  scene  of  existence,  man 
1ms  serious  and  interesting  business  on  hand. 
Whether  a  man  shall  shake  hands  with  welcome 
in  the  distinguished  elevatio.i  of  respect,  or 
shrink  from  contempt  in  the  abject  corner  of  in- 
significance; whether  he  shall  wanton  under  the 
tropic  of  plenty,  at  least  enjoy  himself  in  the 
comfortable  latitudes  of  easy  convenience,  or 
starve  in  the  arctic  circle  of  dreary  poverty; 
whether  he  shall  rise  in  th<^  manly  consciousness 
of  a  self-approving  mind,  or  sink  beneath  a  gall- 
ing load  of  regret  and  remorse — these  are  alter- 
natives of  the  last  moment. 

You  see  how  I  preach.  You  used  occasion- 
ally to  sermonize  too ;  I  wish  you  would,  in 
charity,  favour  me  with  a  sheet  full  in  your 
own  way.  I  admire  the  close  of  a  letter  Lord 
Bolingbroke  writes  to  Dean  Swift: — "Adieu 
dear  Swift !  with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  en- 
tirely :  make  an  eflFort  to  loT,e  me  with  all 
mine  !"  Humble  servant,  and  all  that  trumpery, 
is  now  such  a  prostituted  business,  that  honest 
friendship,  in  her  sincere  way,  must  have  re- 
course to  her  primitive,  simple, — farewell ! 

R.  B. 


CXXVI. 

TO   MR.   GEORGE   LOCKHART, 

MERCHANT,    GLASGOW. 

[Burns,  more  than  any  poet  of  the  age,  loved  to 
write  out  copies  of  his  favourite  poems,  and  present  them 
to  his  friends :  he  sent  "  The  Falls  of  Bruar"  to  Mr. 
Lockhart.] 

Mauchline,  ISth  July,  1788. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  AM  just  going  for  Nithsdale,  else  I  would 
certairi'.r  have  transcribed  some  of  my  rhyming 
things  ft*  you.  The  Miss  Baillies  I  have  seen 
in  Edinburgh.  "  Fair  and  lovely  are  thy  works, 
Lord  God  Almighty!  Who  would  not  praise 
the?  for  these  thy  gifts  in*  thy  goodness  to  the 
Bor?  of  men  !"  It  needed  not  your  fine  taste  to 
admire  them.  I  declare,  one  day  I  had  the 
honour  of  dining  at  Mr.  Baillie's,  I  was  almost 
in  the  predicament  of  the  children  of  Israel, 
when  they  could  not  look  on  Moses'  face  for  the 
plory  that  shone  in  it  when  he  descended  from 
Mount  Sinai. 

I  did  once  write  a  poetic  address  from  the 
Falls  of  Bruar  to  his  Grace  of  Athole,  -when  I 


was  in  the  Highlands.  When  you  return  to 
Scotland,  let  me  know,  and  I  will  send  such  of 
my  pieces  as  please  myself  best.  I  return  to 
Mauchline  in  about  ten  days. 

My  compliments  to  Mr.   Purdon.      I  am  in 
truth,  but  at  present  in  haste, 

Yours, — R  B. 


cxxvn. 

TO   MR.    PETER   HILL. 

[Peter  Hill  was  a  bookseller  in  Edinburgh  :  David  Ran: 
say,  printer  of  the  Evening  Courant:  William  Dunbar, 
an  advocate,  and  president  of  a  club  of  Edinburgh  wits; 
and  Alexander  Cunningham,  a  jeweller,  who  loved  mirth 
and  wine.] 

My  dear  Hill, 

I  SHALL  say  nothing  to  your  mad  present — 
you  have  so  long  and  often  been  of  important 
service  to  me,  and  I  suppose  you  mean  to  go  on 
conferring  obligations  until  I  shall  not  be,  able 
to  lift  up  my  face  before  you.  In  the  mean 
time,  as  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  because  it  hap- 
pened to  be  a  cold  day  in  which  he  made  his 
will,  ordered  his  servants  great  coats  for  mourn- 
ing, so,  because  I  have  been  t,his  week  plagued 
with  an  indigestion,  I  have  sent  you  by  the 
carrier  a  fine  old  ewe-milk  cheese. 

Indigestion  is  the  devil:  nay,  'tis  the  devil 
and  all.  It  besets  a  man  in  every  one  of  his 
senses.  I  lose  my  appetite  at  the  sight  of  suc- 
cessful knavery,  and  sicken  to  loathing  at  the 
noise  and  nonsense  of  self-important  folly. 
When  the  hollow-hearted  wretch  takes  me  by 
the  hand,  the  feeling  spoils  my  dinner :  the 
proud  man's  wine  so  offends  my  palate  that  it 
chokes  me  in  the  gullet ;  and  the  pulvilised, 
feathered,  pert  coxcomb  is  so  disgustful  in  my 
nostril  that  my  stomach  turns. 

If  ever  you  have  any  of  these  disagreeable 
sensations,  let  me  prescribe  for  you  patience 
and  a  bit  of  my  cheese.  I  know  that  you  are 
no  niggard  of  your  good  things  amcng  your 
friends,  and  some  of  them  are  in  much  need  of 
a  slice.  There,  in  my  eye  is  our  friend  Smel- 
lie ;  a  man  positively  of  the  first  abilities  and 
greatest  strength  of  mind,  as  well  as  one  of 
the  best  hearts  and  keenest  wits  that  I  have 
ever  met  with  ;  when  you  see  him,  as,  alas'  he 
too  is  smarting  at  the  pinch  of  distressful  cir- 
cumstances, aggravated  by  the  gneer  of  contu- 
melious greatness — a  bit  of  my  cheese  alone  will 


384 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


not  cure  him,  but  if  you  add  a  tankard  of  brown 
Btout,  and  superadd  a  magnum  of  right  Oporto, 
you  will  see  his  sorrows  vanish  like  the  morning 
mist  before  the  summer  sun. 

Candlish,  the  earliest  friend,  except  my  only 
brother,  that  I  have  on  earth,  and  one  of  the 
worthiest  fellows  that  ever  any  man  called  by 
the  name  of  friend,  if  a  luncheon  of  my  cheese 
would  help  to  rid  him  of  some  of  his  super- 
abundant modesty,  you  would  do  well  to  give  it 
him. 

David,  ^  with  his  Courant,.  comes,  too,  across 
my  recollection,  and  I  beg  you  will  help  him 
largely  from  the  said  ewe-milk  cheese,  to  enable 
him  to  digest  those  bedaubing  paragraphs  with 
which  he  is  eternally  larding  the  lean  characters 
of  certain  great  men  in  a  certain  great  town.  I 
grant  you  the  periods  are  very  well  turned ;  so, 
a  fresh  egg  is  a  very  good  thing,  but  when  thrown 
at  a  man  in  a  pillory,  it  does  not  at  all  improve 
his  figure,  not  to  mention  the  irreparable  loss 
of  the  egg. 

My  facetious  friend  Dunbar  I  would  wish  also 
to  be  a  partaker :  not  to  digest  his  spleen,  for 
that  he  laughs  off,  but  to  digest  his  last  night's 
wine  at  the  last  field-day  of  the  Crochallan 
corps. =^ 

Among  our  common  friends  I  must  not  forget 
one  of  the  dearest  of  them — Cunningham.  The 
brutality,  insolence,  and  selfishness  of  a  world 
unworthy  of  having  such  a  fellow  as  he  is  in  it, 
I  know  sticks  in  his  stomach,  and  if  you  can  help 
him  to  anything  that  will  make  him  a  little  easier 
on  that  score,  it  will  be  very  obliging. 

As  to  honest  J S e,  he  is  such  a 

contented,  happy  man,  that  I  know  not  what 
can  annoy  him,  except,  perhaps,  he  may  not 
have  got  the  better  of  a  parcel  of  modest  anec- 
dotes which  a  certain  poet  gave  him  one  night  at 
supper,  the  last  time  the  said  poet  was  in  town. 

Though  1  have  mentioned  so  many  men  of  law, 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  professedly 
— the  faculty  are  beyond  my  prescription.  As 
to  their  clients,  that  is  another  thing;  God  knows 
they  have  much  to  digest.! 

The  clergy  I  pass  by;  their  profundity  of 
orulition,  and  their  liberality  of  sentiment; 
their  total  want  of  pride,  and  their  detestation 
of  hypocrisy,  are  so  proverbially  notorious  as 
to  place  them  far,  far  above  either  my  praise  or 
censure. 

1  Printer  of  the  Edinburgh  Evening  Courant. 

2  A  club  of  choice  spirits. 


I  was  going  to  mention  a  man  of  worth  whom 
I  have  the  honour  to  call  friend,  the  Laird  of 
Craigdarroch  ;  but  I  have  spoken  to  the  landlord 
of  the  King' 8- Arms  inn  here,  to  have  at  the  next 
county  meeting  a  large  ewe-milk  cheese  on  the 
table,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Dumfries-shire  Whigs, 
to  enable  them  to  digest  the  Duke  of  Queens- 
berry's  late  political  conduct. 

I  have  just  this  moment  an  opportunity  of  a 
private  hand  to  Edinburgh,  as  perhaps  you  avouUI 
not  digest  double  postage.  R.  b. 


CXXVIII. 


TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  ESQ., 

OF   FINTRAT. 

[The  filial  and  fraternal  claims  alluded  to  in  this  letter 
were  satisfied  with  ahout  three  hundred  pounds,  two  hun- 
dred of  which  went  to  his  brother  Gilbert — a  sum  wliich 
made  a  sad  inroad  on  the  money  arising  from  the  second 
edition  of  his  Poems.] 

Sir, 

When  I  had  the  honour  of  being  introduced 
to  you  at  Athole-house,  I  did  not  think,  so  soon 
of  asking  a  favour  of  you.  When  Lear,  in 
Shakspeare,  asked  Old  Kent  why  he  wished  to 
be  in  his  service,  he  answers,  "Because  you 
have  that  in  your  face  which  I  would  fain  call 
master."  For  some  such  reason.  Sir,  do  I  now 
solicit  your  patronage.  You  know,  I  dare  say, 
of  an  application  I  lately  made  to  your  Board  to 
be  admitted  an  ofiicer  of  Excise.  I  have,  ac- 
cording to  form,  been  examined  by  a  supervisor, 
and  to-day  I  gave  in  his  certificate,  with  a  re- 
quest for  an  order  for  instructions.  In  this 
affair,  if  I  succeed,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  but  too 
much  need  a  patronizing  friend.  Propriety  of 
conduct  as  a  man,  and  fidelity  and  attention  as 
an  officer,  I  dare  engage  for ;  but  with  anything 
like  business,  except  manual  labour,  I  am  to- 
tally unacquainted. 

I  had  intended  to  have  closed  my  late  appear- 
ance on  the  stage  of  life,  in  the  character  of  a 
country  farmer;  but  after  discharging  some 
filial  and  fraternal  claims,  I  find  I  could  only 
fight  for  existence  in  that  miserable  manner, 
which  I  have  lived  to  see  throw  a  venerable 
parent  into  the  jaws  of  a  jail;  whence  death, 
the  poor  man's  last  and  often  best  friend,  rescued 
him. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


385 


I  know,  Sir,  that  to  need  your  goodness,  is  to 
have  a  claim  on  it ;  may  I,  therefore,  beg  your 
patronage  to  forward  me  in  this  affair,  till  I  be 
appointed  to  a  division ;  where,  by  the  help  of 
rigid  economy,  I  will  try  to  support  that  inde- 
pendence so  dear  to  my  soul,  but  which  has  been 
too  often  so  distant  from  my  situation. 

R.  B. 


CXXIX. 
TO   WILLIAM  CRUIKSHANK. 

[The  verses  which  this  letter  conveyed  to  Cruikshank 
were  tlie  lines  written  in  Friars-Carse  Hermitage  :  "  the 
first-fruits,"  says  the  poet,  elsewhere,  "of  my  inter- 
course with  the  Nithsdale  muse."] 

Ellisland,  August,  1788. 

I  HAVE  not  room,  my  dear  friend,  to  answer 
all  the  particulars  of  your  last  kind  letter.  I 
shall  be  in  Edinburgh  on  some  business  very 
soon ;  and  as  I  shall  be  two  days,  or  perhaps 
three,  in  town,  we  shall  discuss  matters  vivct 
voce.  My  knee,  I  believe,  will  never  be  entirely 
well ;  and  an  unlucky  fall  this  winter  has  made 
it  still  worse.  I  well  remember  the  circum- 
stance you  allude  to,  respecting  Creech's  opinion 
of  Mr.  Nicol ;  but,  as  the  first  gentleman  owes 
me  still  about  fifty  pounds,  I  dare  not  meddle 
in  the  affair. 

It  gave  me  a  very  heavy  heart  to  read  such 
accounts  of  the  consequence  of  your  quarrel 
with  that  puritanic,  rotten-hearted,  hell-com- 
missioned scoundrel  A .  If,  notwith- 
standing your  unprecedented  industry  in  public, 
and  your  irreproachable  conduct  in  private 
life,  he  still  has  you  so  much  in  his  power,  what 
ruin  may  he  not  bring  on  some  others  I  could 
name  ? 

Many  and  happy  returns  of  seasons  to  you, 
with  your  dearest  and  worthiest  friend,  and  the 
lovely  little  pledge  of  your  happy  union.  May 
the  great  Author  of  life,  and  of  every  enjoyment 
that  can  render  life  delightful,  make  her  that 
comfortable  blessing  to  you  both,  which  you  so 
ardently  wish  for,  and  which,  allow  me  to  say, 
you  so  well  deserve !  Glance  over  the  foregoing 
verses,  and  let  me  have  your  blots. 

Adieu. 

R.  B. 


cxxx. 

TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[The  lines  on  the  Hermitage  were  presented  by  ths 
poet  to  several  of  his  friends,  and  Mrs.  Dunlop  w«a 
among  the  nambcr.] 

MauchUne,  August  2,  1788. 
HoNOTiRED  Madam, 

Your  kind  letter  welcomed  me,  yesternight, 
to  Ayrshire.  I  am,  indeed,  seriously  angry 
with  you  at  the  quantum  of  your  luckpenny ; 
but,  vexed  and  hurt  as  I  was,  I  could  not  help 
laughing  very  heartily  at  the  noble  lord's  apo- 
logy for  the  missed  napkin. 

I  would  write  you  from  Nithsdale,  and  give 
you  my  direction  there,  but  I  have  scarce  an 
opportunity  of  calling  at  a  post-office  once  in  a 
fortnight.  I  am  six  miles  from  Dumfries,  am 
scarcely  ever  in  it  myself,  and,  as  yet,  have 
little  acquaintance  in  the  neighbourhood.  Be- 
sides, I  am  now  very  busy  on  my  farm,  building 
a  dwelling-house;  as  at  present  I  am  almost  an 
evangelical  man  in  Nithsdale,  for  I  have  scarce 
"where  to  lay  my  head." 

There  are  some  passages  in  your  last  that 
brought  tears  in  my  eyes.  "The  heart  knoweth 
its  own  sorrows,  and  a  stranger  intermeddleth 
not  therewith."  The  repository  of  these  "  sor- 
rows of  the  heart"  is  a  kind  of  sanctum  sancto~ 
rum:  and  'tis  only  a  chosen  friend,  and  that, 
too,  at  particular  sacred  times,  who  dares  enter 
into  them : — 

**  Heaven  oft  tears  the  bosom-chords 
That  nature  finest  strung." 

You  will  excuse  this  quotation  for  the  sake 
of  the  author.  Instead  of  entering  on  this  sub 
ject  farther,  I  shall  transcribe  you  a  few  lines 
I  wrote  in  a  hermitage,  belonging  to  a  gentle- 
man in  my  Nithsdale  neighbourhood.  They 
are  almost  the  only  favours  the  muses  have  con- 
ferred on  me  in  that  country : — 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead.' 

Since  I  am  in  the  way  of  transcribing,  the 
following  were  the  production  of  yesterday  as 
I  jogged  through  the  wild  hills  of  New  Cum- 
nock. I  intend  inserting  them,  or  something 
like  them,  in  an  epistle  I  am  going  to  write  to 
the  gentleman  on  whose  friendship  my  Excise 
hopes  depend,  Mr.  Grahams,  of  Fintray,  one  of 

1  See  Poems  LXXXIX  and  XC 


386 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


the  worthiest  and  most  accomplished  gentlemen 
not  only  of  this  country,  but,  I  will  dare  to  say 
it,  of  this  age.  The  following  are  just  the  first 
crude  thoughts  "  unhousel'd^  unanointed,  unan- 
neal'd :" — 

***** 
Pity  the  tuneful  muses'  helpless  train ; 
Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life's  stormy  main: 
The  world  were  blest,  did  bliss  on  them  depend; 
Mi,   that    "the   friendly   e'er   should  want   a 

friend !" 
The  little  fate  bestows  they  share  as  soon ; 
Unlike   sage,  proverb' d,  wisdom's  hard- wrung 

boon. 
Let  Prudence  number  o'er  each  sturdy  son, 
Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun ; 
Who  feel  by  reason  and  who  give  by  rule ; 
Instinct's  a  brute  and  sentiment  a  fool! 
Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  T  should ; 
We  own  they're  prudent,  but  who  owns  they're 

good  ? 

Ye  wise  ones,  hence !  ye  hurt  the  social  eye ; 
God's  image  rudely  etch'd  on  base  alloy ! 
But  come        ****** 

Here  the  muse  left  me.  I  am  astonished  at 
what  you  tell  me  of  Anthony's  writing  me.  I 
never  received  it.  Poor  fellow !  you  vex  me 
much  by  telling  me  that  he  is  unfortunate.  I 
shall  be  in  Ayrshire  ten  days  from  this  date.  I 
have  just  room  for  an  old  Roman  farewell. 

R.  B. 


CXXXI. 
TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

'  [This  letter  has  been  often  cited,  and  ver>'  proper  y,  ss 
A  proof  of  the  strong  attachment  of  Burns  to  one  who 
was,  in  many  respects,  worthy.] 

Mauchline,  August  10,  1788. 

Mr  MUCH  HONOURED  FrIEND, 

Fours  of  the  24th  June  is  before  me.  I  found 
it,  as  well  as  another  valued  friend — my  wife, 
waiting  to  welcome  me  to  Ayrshire :  I  met  both 
with  the  sincerest  pleasure. 

When  I  write  you,  Madam,  I  do  not  sit  down 
to  answer  every  paragraph  of  yours,  by  echoing 
every  sentiment,  like  the  faithful  Commons  of 
Great  Britain  in  Parliament  assembled,  an- 
swering a  speech  from  the  best  of  kings !    I  ex- 


press myself  in  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  and 
may,  perhaps,  be  guilty  of  neglecting  some  of 
your  kind  inquiries ;  but  not  from  your  very 
old  reason,  that  I  do  not  read  your  letters.  AH 
your  epistles  for  several  months  have  cost  rae 
nothing,  except  a  swelling  throb  of  gratitude, 
or  a  deep-felt  sentiment  of  veneration. 

When  Mrs.  Burns,  Madam,  first  found  her- 
self *'  as  women  wish  to  be  who  love  their 
lords,"  as  I  loved  her  nearly  to  distraction,  we 
took  steps  for  a  private  marriage.  Her  parents 
got  the  hint ;  and  not  only  forbade  me  her  com- 
pany and  their  house,  but,  on  my  rumoured 
West  Indian  voyage,  got  a  warrant  to  put  me 
in  jail,  till  I  should  find  security  in  my  about- 
to-be  paternal  relation.  You  know  my  lucky 
reverse  of  fortune.  On  my  iclatant  return  to 
Mauchline,  I  was  made  very  welcome  to  visit 
my  girl.  The  usual  consequences  began  to  be- 
tray her ;  and,  as  I  was  at  that  time  laid  up  a 
cripple  in  Edinburgh,  she  was  turned,  literally 
turned  out  of  doors,  and  I  wrote  to  a  friend  to 
shelter  her  till  my  return,  when  our  marriage 
was  declared.  Her  happiness  or  misery  were 
in  my  hands,  and  who  could  trifle  with  such  a 
deposit  ? 

I  can  easily  fancy  a  more  agreeable  compa- 
nion for  my  journey  of  life ;  but,  upon  my 
honour,  I  have  never  seen  the  individual  in- 
stance. 

Circumstanced  as  I  am,  I  could  never  have 
got  a  female  partner  for  life,  who  could  have 
entered  into  my  favourite  studies,  relished  my 
favourite  authors,  &c.,  without  probably  entail- 
ing on  me  at  the  same  time  expensive  living, 
fantastic  caprice,  perhaps  apish  affectation,  with 
all  the  other  blessed  boarding-school  acquire- 
ments, which  [pardonnez  moi,  Madame,)  are 
sometimes  to  be  found  among  females  of  the 
upper  ranks,  but  almost  universally  pervade  the 
misses  of  the  would-be  gentry. 

I  like  your  way  in  your  church-yard  lucubra- 
tions. Thoughts  that  are  the  spontaneous  result 
of  accidental  situations,  either  respecting  health, 
place,  or  company,  have  often  a  strength,  and 
always  an  originality,  that  would  in  vain  be 
looked  for  in  fancied  circumstances  and  studied 
paragraphs.  For  me,  I  have  often  thought  of 
keeping  a  letter,  in  progression  by  me,  to  send 
you  when  the  sheet  was  written  out.  Now  I 
talk  of  sheets,  I  must  tell  you,  my  reason  for 
writing  to  you  on  paper  of  this  kind  is  my  pru- 
riency of  writing  to  you  at  large.  A  page  of 
post  is  on  such  a  dissocial,  narrow-minded  scale, 


OF   ROBEllT   BURNS. 


387 


mat  I  cannot  abide  it ;  and  double  letters,  at 
least  in  my  miscellaneous  revery  manner,  are  a 
monstrous  tax  in  a  close  correspondence. 

R.  B. 


CXXXII. 

TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[Mrs.  Miller,  of  Dalswinton,  was  a  lady  of  beauty  and 
talent :  she  wrote  verses  with  skill  and  taste.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Jean  Lindsay.] 

Ellisland,  \Qth  August,  1788. 
I  AM  in  a  fine  disposition,  my  honoured  friend, 
to  send  you  an  elegiac  epistle ;  and  -^^ant  only 
genius  to  make  it  quite  Shenstonian : — 

"  Why  droops  my  heart  with  fancied  woes  forlorn  ? 
Why  sinks  ray  soul,  beneath  each  wintry  sky?" 

My  increasing  cares  in  this,  as  yet  strange 
country — gloomy  conjectures  in  the  dark  vista 
of  futurity — consciousness  of  my  own  inability 
for  the  struggle  of  the  world — my  broadened 
mark  to  misfortune  in  a  wife  and  children; — I 
could  indulge  these  reflections  till  my  humour 
should  ferment  into  the  most  acid  chagrin,  that 
would  corrode  the  very  thread  of  life. 

To  counterwork  these  baneful  feelings,  I  have 
sat  down  to  write  to  you ;  as  I  declare  upon 
my  soul  I  always  find  that  the  most  sovereign 
balm  for  my  wounded  spirit. 

I  was  yesterday  at  Mr.  Miller's  to  dinner  for 
the  first  time.  My  reception  was  quite  to  my 
mind :  from  the  lady  of  the  house  quite  flatter- 
ing. She  sometimes  hits  on  a  couplet  or  two, 
impromptu.  She  repeated  one  or  two  to  the  ad- 
miration of  all  present.  My  sufi'rage  as  a  pro- 
fessional man,  was  expected :  I  for  once  went 
agonizing  over  the  belly  of  my  conscience.  Par- 
don me,  ye  my  adored  household  gods,  inde- 
pendence of  spirit,  and  integrity  of  soul !  In  the 
course  of  conversation,  "Johnson's  Musical 
Museum,"  a  collection  of  Scottish  songs  with 
the  music,  was  talked  of.  We  got  a  song  on 
the  harpsichord,  beginning, 

"  Raving  winds  around  her  blowing."  ' 
The  air  was  much  admired :  the  lady  of  the 
house  asked  me  whose  were  the  words.  •*  Mine, 
Madam — they  are  indeed  my  very  best  verses;" 
ehe  took  not  the  smallest  notice  of  them !  The 
old  Scottish  proverb  says  well,  "  king's  caflF  is 

See  S^ng  LII. 


better  than  ither  folks'  corn."  I  was  going  to 
make  a  New  Testament  quotation  about  "  cast- 
ing pearls"  but  that  would  be  too  virulent,  for 
the  lady  is  actually  a  woman  of  sense  and 
taste. 

After  all  that  has  been  said  on  the  other  side 
of  the  question,  man  is  by  no  means  a  happy 
creature.  I  do  not  speak  of  the  selected  few, 
favoured  by  partial  heaven,  whose  souls  are 
tuned  to  gladness  amid  riches  and  honours,  and 
prudence  and  wisdom.  I  speak  of  the  neglected 
many,  whose  nerves,  whose  sinews,  whose  days 
are  sold  to  the  minions  of  fortune. 

If  I  thought  you  had  never  seen  it,  I  would 
transcribe  for  you  a  stanza  of  an  old  Scottish 
ballad,  called,  "The  Life  and  Age  of  Man;" 
beginning  thus : 

"  'Twas  in  the  sixteenth  hunder  year 
Of  God  and  fifty-three, 
Frae  Christ  was  born,  that  bought  us  dear, 
As  writings  testifie." 

I  had  an  old  grand-uncle,  with  whom  my  mo- 
ther lived  awhile  in  her  girlish  years ;  the  good 
old  man,  for  such  he  was,  was  long  blind  ere  he 
died,  during  which  time  his  highest  enjoyment 
was  to  sit  down  and  cry,  while  my  mother  would 
sing  the  simple  old  song  of  "the  Life  and  Age 
of  Man." 

It  is  this  way  of  thinking ;  it  is  these  melan- 
choly truths,  that  make  religion  so  precious  to 
the  poor,  miserable  children  of  men. — If  it  is  a 
mere  phantom,  existing  only  in  the  heated  ima- 
gination of  enthusiasm, 

"  What  truth  on  earth  so  precious  as  A  lie." 

My  idle  reasonings  sometimes  make  me  a 
little  sceptical,  but  the  necessities  of  my  heart 
always  give  the  cold  philosophisings  the  lie. 
Who  looks  for  the  heart  weaned  from  earth ; 
the  soul  affianced  to  her  God ;  the  correspond- 
ence fixed  with  heaven ;  the  pious  supplication 
and  devout  thanksgiving,  constant  as  the  vicis- 
situdes of  even  and  morn ;  who  thinks  to  meet 
with  these  in  the  court,  the  palace,  in  the  glare 
of  public  life  ?  No :  to  find  them  in  their  pre- 
cious importance  and  divine  efficacy,  we  must 
search  among  the  obscure  recesses  of  disappoint- 
ment, affliction,  poverty,  and  distress. 

I  am  sure,  dear  Madam,  you  are  now  n^ore 
than  pleased  with  the  length  of  my  letters.  1 
return  to  Ayrshire  middle  of  next  week :  and  it 
quickens  my  pace  to  think  that  there  will 
be  a  letter  from  you  waiting  me  there.  I 
must  be  here  again  very  soon  for  my  harvest 

R.  B. 


388 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


CXXXIII. 
TO   MR.    BEUGO, 

ENORAVEK,    EDINBURGH. 

[Mr.  Beugo  was  a  well-known  ennrraver  in  Edinburgh  : 
he  engraved  Nasmyth's  portrait  of  Burns,  for  Creech's 
first  edition  of  his  Poems;  and  as  he  could  draw  a  little, 
he  inr,;jroved,  as  he  called  it,  the  engraving  iVoni  sittings 
Df  the  poet,  and  made  it  a  little  more  like,  and  a  little 
less  poetic] 

Ellisland,  %th  Sept.  1788. 
jMy  dear  Sir, 

There  is  not  in  Edinburgh  above  the  number 
of  the  graces  whose  letters  would  have  given  me 
so  much  pleasure  as  yours  of  the  3d  instant, 
which  only  reached  me  yesternight. 

I  am  here  on  the  farm,  busy  with  my  harvest ; 
but  for  all  that  most  pleasurable  part  of  life 
called  SOCIAL  commukication,  I  am  here  at  the 
very  elbow  of  existence.  The  only  things  that 
are  to  be  found  in  this  country,  in  any  degree 
of  perfection,  are  stupidity  and  canting.  Prose 
they  only  know  in  graces,  prayers,  &c.,  and  the 
value  of  these  they  estimate  as  they  do  their 
plaiding  webs — by  the  ell!  As  for  the  muses, 
they  have  as  much  an  idea  of  a  rhinoceros  as 
of  a  poet.  For  my  old  capricious  but  good- 
natured  huzzy  of  a  muse — 

'<  By  banks  of  Nith  I  sat  and  wept 

When  Cnila  I  thought  on. 
In  midst  thereof  I  hung  my  harp 

The  willow-trees  upon." 

I  am  generally  about  half  my  time  in  Ayrshire 
with  my  "darling  Jean,"  and  then  I,  at  lucid 
intervals;  throw  my  horny  fist  across  my  becob- 
webbed  lyre,  much  in  the  same  manner  as  an 
old  wife  throws  her  hand  across  the  spokes  of 
her  spinning-wheel. 

I  will  send  you  the  "  Fortunate  Shepherdess" 
as  soon  as  I  return  to  Ayrshire,  for  there  I  keep 
it  with  other  precious  treasure.  I  shall  send 
it  by  a  careful  hand,  as  I  would  not  for  any- 
thing it  should  be  mislaid  or  lost.  I  do  not 
wish  to  serve  you  from  any  benevolence,  or 
other  grave  Christian  virtue;  'tis  purely  a  sel- 
fish gratification  of  my  own  feelings  whenever  I 
think  of  you. 

If  your  better  functions  would  give  you  lei- 
sure to  write  me,  I  should  be  extremely  happy; 
that  is  to  say  if  you  neither  keep  nor  look  for 
a  regular  correspondence.  I  hate  the  idea  of 
being  obliged  to  write  a  letter.  I  sometimes 
write  a  friend  twice  a  week,  at  other  times  once 
a  quarter. 


I  am  exceedingly  pleased  with  your  fan<^y  is 
makiug  the  author  you  mention  place  a  map  of 
Iceland  instead  of  his  portrait  before  his  works 
'twas  a  glorious  idea. 

Could  you  conveniently  do  me  one  thing  ?— 
whenever  you  finish  any  head  I  should  like  to 
have  a  proof  copy  of  it.  I  might  tell  you  a 
long  story  about  your  fine  genius;  but  as  what 
everybody  knows  cannot  have  escaped  you,  I 
shall  not  say  one  syllable  about  it. 

R.  B. 


CXXXIV. 


TO   MISS   CHALMERS, 

EDINBURGH. 

[To  this  fine  letter  all  the  biographers  of  Bums  ar« 
largely  indebted.] 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  Sept.  \&th,  1788. 
Where  are  you?  and  how  are  you?  and  is 
Lady  Mackenzie  recovering  her  health?  for  I 
have  had  but  one  solitary  letter  from  you.  I 
will  not  think  you  have  forgot  me,  Madam ;  and 
for  my  part — 

"  When  thee,  Jerusalem.  I  forget, 
Skill  part  from  my  right  hand  !" 

"  My  heart  is  not  of  that  rock,  nor  my  soul 
careless  as  that  sea."  I  do  not  make  my  pro- 
gress among  mankind  as  a  bowl  does  among  its 
fellows — rolling  through  the  crowd  without  bear- 
ing away  any  mark  of  impression,  except  where 
they  hit  in  hostile  collision. 

I  am  here,  driven  in  with  my  harvest-folk? 
by  bad  weather ;  and  as  you  and  your  sister 
once  did  me  the  honour  of  interesting  your- 
selves much  cL  Vegard  de  moi,  I  sit  down  to  beg 
the  continuation  of  your  goodness.  I  can  truly 
say  that,  all  the  exterior  of  life  apart,  I  never 
saw  two,  whose  esteem  flattered  the  nobler  feel- 
ings of  my  soul — I  will  not  say  more,  but  so 
much  as  Lady  Mackenzie  and  Miss  Chalmers. 
When  I  think  of  you — hearts  the  best,  minds 
the  noblest  of  human  kind — unfortunate  even 
in  the  shades  of  life — when  I  think  I  have  met 
with  you,  and  have  lived  more  of  real  life  with 
you  in  eight  days  than  I  can  do  with  almost  any  I 
body  I  meet  with  in  eight  years — when  I  think 
on  the  improbability  of  meeting  you  in  this 
world  again — I  could  sit  down  and  cry  like  a 
child!  If  ever  you  honoured  me  with  a  place 
in  your  esteem,  I  trust  I  can  now  plead  more 


OF   ROBERT  BURNS. 


389 


desert.  I  am  secure  against  that  crushing  grip 
of  iron  poverty,  -which,  alas !  is  less  or  more 
fatal  to  the  native  worth  and  purity  of,  I  fear, 
the  noblest  souls;  and  a  late  important  step  in 
my  life  has  kindly  taken  me  out  of  the  way  of 
those  ungrateful  iniquities,  which,  however  over- 
looked in  fashionable  license,  or  varnished  in 
fashionable  phrase,  are  indeed  but  lighter  and 
deeper  shades  of  villant. 

Shortly  after  my  last  return  to  Ayrshire,  I 
married  "my  Jean."  This  was  not  in  conse- 
quence of  the  attachment  of  romance,  perhaps  ; 
but  I  had  a  long  and  much-loved  fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness  or  misery  in  my  determina- 
iion,  and  I  durst  not  trifle  with  so  important  a 
deposit.  Nor  have  I  any  cause  to  repent  it.  If 
i  have  not  got  polite  tattle,  modish  manners, 
lind  fashionable  dress,  I  am  not  sickened  and 
disgusted  with  the  multiform  curse  of  board- 
fng-school  affectation:  and  I  have  got  thehand- 
gomest  figure,  the  sweetest  temper,  the  soundest 
jonstitution,  and  the  kindest  heart  in  the  county. 
Mrs.  Burns  believes,  as  firmly  as  her  creed,  that 
I  am  le  plus  bel  esprit,  et  le  plus  honnete  homme  in 
the  universe  ;  although  she  scarcely  ever  in  her 
life,  except  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testament,  and  the  Psalms  of  David  in  metre, 
spent  five  minutes  together  either  on  prose  or 
verse.  I  must  except  also  from  this  last  a  cer- 
tain late  publication  of  Scots  poems,  which  she 
has  perused  very  devoutly  ;  and  all  the  ballads 
m  the  country,  as  she  has  (0  the  partial  lover  I 
70U  will  cry)  the  finest  "  wood-note  wild"  I 
ever  heard.  I  am  the  more  particular  in  this 
lady's  character,  as  I  know  she  will  henceforth 
have  the  honour  of  a  share  in  your  best  wishes. 
8he  is  still  at  Mauchline,  as  I  am  building  my 
house ;  for  this  hovel  that  I  shelter  in,  while 
occasionally  here,  is  pervious  to  every  blast  that 
blows,  and  every  shower  that  falls  ;  and  I  am 
only  preserved  from  being  chilled  to  death  by 
being  suffocated  with  smoke.  I  do  not  find  my 
farm  that  pennyworth  I  was  taught  to  expect, 
but  I  believe,  in  time,  it  may  be  a  saving  bar- 
gain. You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I  have 
laid  aside  idle  iclat,  and  bind  every  day  after 
my  reapers. 

To  save  me  from  that  horrid  situation  of  at 
any  time  going  down  in  a  losing  bargain  of  a 
farm,  to  misery,  I  have  taken  my  Excise  in- 
Btructions,  and  have  my  commission  in  my 
pocket  for  any  emergency  of  fortune.  If  I 
tould  set  all  before  your  view,  whatever  disre- 
Bpect  you,  in  common  with  the  world,  have  for 


this  business,  I  know  you  would  approve  of  my 
idea. 

I  will  make  no  apology,  dear  Madam,  for  this 
egotistic  detail ;  I  know  you  and  your  sister 
will  be  interested  in  every  circumstance  of  it. 
What  signify  the  silly,  idle  gewgaws  of  wealth, 
or  the  ideal  trumpery  of  greatness  !  Whec  fel- 
low-partakers of  the  same  nature  fear  the  same 
God,  have  the  same  benevolence  of  heart,  the 
same  nobleness  of  soul,  the  same  detestation  at 
everything  dishonest,  and  the  same  scorn  at 
everything  unworthy — if  they  are  not  in  the 
dependence  of  absolute  beggary,  in  the  name 
of  common  sense  are  they  not  equals  ?  And  if 
the  bias,  the  instinctive  bias,  of  their  souls  run 
the  same  way,  why  may  they  not  be  friends  ? 

"When  I  may  have  an  opportunity  of  sending 
you  this.  Heaven  only  knows.  Shenstone  says, 
'*  When  one  is  confined  idle  within  doors  by  bad 
weather,  the  best  antidote  against  ennui  is  to 
read  the  letters  of  or  write  to,  one's  friends  ;"  in 
that  case  then,  if  the  weather  continues  thus, 
I  may  scrawl  you  half  a  quire. 

I  very  lately — to  wit,  since  harvest  began — 
wrote  a  poem,  not  in  imitation,  but  in  the  man- 
ner, of  Pope's  Moral  Epistles.  It  is  only  a  short 
essay,  just  to  try  the  strength  of  my  muse's 
pinion  in  that  way.  I  will  send  you  a  copy  of 
it,  when  once  I  have  heard  from  you.  I  have 
likewise  been  laying  the  foundation  of  some 
pretty  large  poetic  works  :  how  the  superstruc 
ture  will  come  on,  I  leave  to  that  great  maker 
and  marrer  of  projects — time.  Johnson's  col- 
lection of  Scots  songs  is  going  on  in  the  third 
volume ;  and,  of  consequence,  finds  me  a  con- 
sumpt  for  a  great  deal  of  idle  metre.  One  of 
the  most  tolerable  things  I  have  done  in  that 
way  is  two  stanzas  I  made  to  an  air,  a  musical 
gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  composed  for 
the  anniversary  of  his  wedding-day,  which  hap- 
pens on  the  seventh  of  November.  Take  it  as 
follows: — 

**  The  day  returns — my  bosom  burns, 
The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet,"  &c.^ 

I  shall  give  over  this  letter  for  shame.  If  I 
should  be  seized  with  a  scribbling  fit,  before 
this  goes  away,  I  shall  make  it  another  letter; 
and  then  you  may  allow  your  patience  a  week's 
respite  between  the  two.  I  have  not  room  fo< 
more  than  tlie  old,  kind,  hearty  farewell. 


Song  LXIX- 


890 


GExNEKAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


To  make  some  amends,  mes  cTihres  Mesdames, 
for  dragging  you  on  to  this  second  sheet,  and 
to  relieve  a  little  the  tiresomeness  of  my  unstu- 
died and  uncorrectible  prose,  I  sh  ill  transcribe 
you  some  of  my  late  poetic  bagatelles ;  though 
I  have,  these  eight  or  ten  months,  done  very 
little  that  way.  One  day  in  a  hermitage  on 
the  banks  of  Nith,  belonging  to  a  gentleman  in 
my  neighbourhood,  who  is  so  good  as  give  me  a 
key  at  pleasure,  I  wrote  as  follows ;  supposing 
myself  the  sequestered,  venerable  inhabitant  of 
the  lonely  mansion. 

LINES    WRITTEN    IN   FRI A  R  S-C  AR  S  E 
HERMITAGE. 

**  Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed."* 

R.  B. 


CXXXV. 

TO  MR.   MORISON, 

MAUCHLINE. 

[Morison,  of  Mauchline,  made  most  of  the  poet's  fur- 
niture, for  Ellisland :  from  Mauchline,  too,  came  that 
eight-day  clock,  which  was  sold,  at  the  death  of  the 
poet's  widow,  for  thirty-eight  pounds,  to  one  who  would 
have  paid  one  hundred,  sooner  than  wanted  it.] 

Ellisland,  September  22,  1788. 
My  DEAR  Sir, 
Necessity  obliges  me  to  go  into  my  new  house 
even  before  it  be  plastered.  I  will  inhabit  the 
one  end  until  the  other  is  finished.  About  three 
weeks  more,  I  think,  will  at  farthest  be  my  time, 
beyond  which  I  cannot  stay  in  this  presenthouse. 
If  ever  you  wished  to  deserve  the  blessing  of  him 
that  was  ready  to  perish ;  if  ever  you  were  in 
a  situation  that  a  little  kindness  would  have  res- 
cued you  from  many  evils;  if  ever  you  hope  to 
find  rest  in  future  states  of  untried  being — get 
these  matters  of  mine  ready.  My  servant  will 
be  out  in  the  beginning  of  next  week  for  the 
clock.  My  compliments  to  Mrs.  Morison. 
I  am, 

After  all  my  tribulation, 

Dear  Sir,  yours, 
R.  B. 


Poems  LXXXIX.  and  XC. 


CXXXVI. 
TO   MRS.   DUNLOP, 

OP   DUNLOP. 

[Burns  had  no  great  respect  for  critics  who  found  ble 
mishes  without  perceiving  beauties:  he  expresses  hi 
contempt  for  such  in  this  letter.] 

Mauchline,  21th  Sept.  1788. 

I  HAVE  received  twins,  dear  Madam,  more 
than  once ;  but  scarcely  ever  with  more  pleasure 
than  when  I  received  yours  of  the  12th  instant. 
To  make  myself  understood ;  I  had  wrote  to  Mr. 
Graham,  enclosing  my  poem  addressed  to  him, 
and  the  same  post  which  favoured  me  with 
yours  brought  me  an  answer  from  him.  It  was 
dated  the  very  day  he  had  received  mine ;  and  I 
am  quite  at  a  loss  to  say  whether  it  was  most 
polite  or  kind. 

Your  criticisms,  my  honoured  benefactress, 
are  truly  the  work  of  a  friend.  They  are  not 
the  blasting  depredations  of  a  canker-toothed, 
caterpillar  critic ;  nor  are  they  the  fair  state- 
ment of  cold  impartiality,  balancing  with  un- 
feeling exactitude  the  pro  and  con  of  an  author's 
merits  ;  they  are  the  judicious  observations  of 
animated  friendship,  selecting  the  beauties  of 
the  piece.  I  have  just  arrived  from  Nithsdale, 
and  will  be  here  a  fortnight.  I  was  on  horse- 
back this  morning  by  three  o'clock ;  for  between 
my  wife  and  my  farm  is  just  forty-six  miles. 
As  I  jogged  on  in  the  dark,  I  was  taken  with  a 
poetic  fit  as  follows  : 

"  Mrs.  Ferguson  of  Craigdarroch's  lamenta- 
tion for  the  death  of  her  son ;  an  uncommonly 
promising  youth  of  eighteen  or  nineteen  years 
of  age." 

"  Fate  gave  the  word — the  arrow  sped, 
And  pierced  my  darling's  heart. "^ 

You  will  not  send  me  your  poetic  rambles,  but, 
you  see  I  am  no  niggard  of  mine.  I  am  sure 
your  impromptus  give  me  double  pleasure;  what 
falls  from  your  pen  can  neither  be  unentertain- 
ing  in  itself,  nor  indifferent  to  me. 

The  one  fault  you  found,  is  just;  but  I  cannot 
please  myself  in  an  emendation. 

What  a  life  of  solicitude  is  the  life  of  a  parent ! 
You  interested  me  much  in  your  young  couple. 

I  would  not  take  my  folio  paper  for  this  epis- 
tle, and  now  I  repent  it.  I  am  so  jaded  with 
my  dirty  long  journey  that  I  was  afraid  to 
drawl  into   the   essence  of  dulness  with   any« 

2  Poem  XCII. 


OF   ROBEET   BURx\S. 


39^ 


thing  larger  than  a  quarto,  and  so  I  must  leave 
out  another  rhyme  of  this  morning's  manufac- 
ture. 

I  will  pay  the  sapientipotent  George,  most 
cheerfully,  to  hear  from  you  ere  I  leave  Ayr- 
shire. R.  B. 


CXXXVII. 


TO   MR.   PETER   HILL. 

["  The  '  Address  to  Lochlomond,'  which  this  letter 
criticises,"  says  Currie  iu  1800,  "  was  written  Ity  a  gentle- 
man, now  one  of  the  masters  of  the  High-school  of  Edin- 
Durgh,  and  the  same  who  translated  the  beautiful  story 
of '  The  Paria,'  published  in  the  Bee  of  Dr.  Anderson."] 

Mauchline,  1st  October,  1788. 

I  HAVE  been  here  in  this  country  about  three 
days,  and  all  that  time  my  chief  reading  has 
been  the  "  Address  to  Lochlomond"  you  were 
80  obliging  as  to  send  to  me.  Were  I  impan- 
nelled  one  of  the  author's  jury,  to  determine 
his  criminality  respecting  the  sin  of  poesy,  my 
verdict  should  be  "  guilty  !  a  poet  of  nature's 
making!"  It  is  an  excellent  method  for  im- 
provement, and  what  I  believe  every  poet  does, 
to  place  some  favourite  classic  author  in  his  own 
•walks  of  study  and  composition,  before  him  as 
a  model.  Though  your  author  had  not  men- 
tioned the  name,  I  could  have,  at  half  a  glance, 
guessed  his  model  to  be  Thomson.  Will  my 
brother-poet  forgive  me,  if  I  venture  to  hint 
that  his  im'ation  of  that  immortal  bard  is  in 
two  or  three  places  rather  more  servile  than 
puch  a  genius  as  his  required : — e.  g. 

"  To  soothe  the  maddening  passions  all  to  peace." 

ADDBB9S. 

"  To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace." 

Thomson. 

I  think  the  "  Address"  is  in  simplicity,  har- 
mony, and  elegance  of  versification,  fully  equal 
to  the  "  Seasons."  Like  Thomson,  too,  he  has 
looked  into  nature  for  himself:  you  meet  with 
no  copied  description.  One  particular  criticism 
I  made  at  first  reading  ;  in  no  one  instance  has 
he  said  too  much.  He  never  flags  in  his  pro- 
gress, but,  like  a  true  poet  of  nature's  making 
kindles  in  his  course.  His  beginning  is  simple 
and  modest,  as  if  distrustful  of  the  strength  of 
his  pinion  ;  only,  I  do  not  altogether  like — 

"  Truth, 

The  soul  of  every  song  that's  nobly  great." 

Fiction  is  the  soul  of  many  a  song  that  is 
uobly  great.     Perhaps  I  am  wrong :  this  may 


be  but  a  prose  criticism.  Is  not  the  phrase,  in 
line  7,  page  G,  "Great  lake,"  too  much  vulgar- 
ized by  every-day  language  for  so  sublime  a 
poem  ? 

"  Great  mass  of  waters,  theme  for  nobler  song," 
is   perhaps   no  emendation.     Ilis  enumeratio* 
of  a  comparison  with  other  lakes  is  at  once  har- 
monious and  poetic.    Every  reader's  ideas  must 
sweep  the 

*<  Winding  margin  of  an  hundred  miles." 
The  perspective  that  follows  mountains  blu« 
— the  imprisoned  billows  beating  in  vain — the 
wooded  isles — the  digression  on  the  yew-tree — 
"Ben-lomond's  lofty,  cloud-envelop'dhead,"  &c. 
are  beautiful.  A  thunder-storm  is  a  subject 
which  has  been  often  tried,  yet  our  poet  in  hia 
grand  picture  has  interjected  a  circumstance, 
so  far  as  I  know,  entirely  original : — 

"  the  gloom 

Deep  seam'd  with  frequent  streaks  of  moving  fire.'- 

In  his  preface  to  the  Storm,  "  the  glens  how 
dark  between,"  is  noble  highland  landscape ! 
The  "  rain  ploughing  the  red  mould,"  too,  is 
beautifully  fancied.  "Ben-lomond's  lofty,  path- 
less top,"  is  a  good  expression;  and  the  sur 
rounding  view  from  it  is  truly  great :  the 

• '<  silver  mist, 

Beneath  the  beaming  sun," 

is  well  described;  and  here  he  has  contrived  to 
enliven  his  poem  with  a  little  of  that  passion 
which  bids  fair,  I  think,  to  usurp  the  modern 
muses  altogether.  I  know  not  how  far  this 
episode  is  a  beauty  upon  the  whole,  but  the 
swain's  wish  to  carry  "some  faint  idea  of  the 
vision  bright,"  to  entertain  her  "  partial  lis 
tening  ear,"  is  a  pretty  thought.  But  in  my 
opinion  the  most  beautiful  passages  in  the  whole 
poem  are  the  fowls  crowding,  in  wintry  frosts, 
to  Lochlomond's  "  hospitable  flood ;"  their 
wheeling  round,  their  lighting,  mixing,  diving, 
&c.;  and  the  glorious  description  of  the  sports- 
man. This  last  is  equal  to  anything  in  the 
"Seasons."  The  idea  of  "the  floating  tribe 
distant  seen,  far  glistering  to  the  moon,"  pro- 
voking his  eye  as  he  is  obliged  to  leave  them, 
is  a  noble  ray  of  poetic  genius.  "The  howling 
winds,"  the  "  hideous  roar"  of  the  white  cas- 
cades," are  all  in  the  same  style. 

I  forget  that  while  I  am  thus  holding  forth 
with  the  heedless  warmth  of  an  enthusiast,  I 
am  perhaps  tiring  you  with  nonsense.  I  must, 
however,  mention  that  the  last  verse  of  the  six- 
teenth page  is  one  of  the  most  elegant  compli 


392 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


ments  I  have  ever  seen.  I  must  likewise  notice 
that  beautiful  paragraph  beginning,  "The 
gleaming  lake,"  &c.  I  dare  not  go  into  the 
particular  beauties  of  the  last  two  paragraphs, 
but  they  are  admirably  fine,  and  truly  Ossianic. 

I  must  beg  your  pardon  for  this  lengthened 
Bcrawl.  I  had  no  idea  of  it  when  I  began — I 
should  like  to  know  who  the  author  is ;  but, 
whoever  he  be,  please  present  him  with  my 
grateful  thanks  for  the  entertainment  he  has 
afforded  me. 

A  friend  of  mine  desired  me  to  commission  for 
him  two  books,  "Letters  on  the  Religion  essen- 
tial to  Man,"  a  book  you  sent  me  before ;  and 
"  The  World  unmasked,  or  the  Philosopher  the 
greatest  Cheat."  Send  me  them  by  the  first 
opportunity.  The  Bible  you  sent  me  is  truly 
elegant ;  I  only  wish  it  had  been  in  two  volumes. 

R.  B. 


CXXXYIII. 

TO   THE  EDITOR  OF  "THE   STAR." 

[The  clergyman  wrho  preached  the  sermon  which  this 
letter  condemns,  was  a  man  equally  worthy  and  stern — a 
divine  of  Scotland's  elder  day:  he  received  "a  harmoni- 
ous call"  to  a  smaller  stipend  than  that  of  Dunscore — 
and  accepted  it.] 

November  ^th,  1788. 
Sir, 

PfOTVviTHSTANDiNa  the  opprobrious  epithets 
with  which  some  of  our  philosophers  and  gloomy 
sectarians  have  branded  our  nature — the  prin- 
ciple of  universal  selfishness,  the  proneness  to 
all  evil,  they  have  given  us ;  still  the  detestation 
in  which  inhumanity  to  the  distressed,  or  inso- 
lence to  the  fallen,  are  held  by  all  mankind, 
shows  that  they  are  not  natives  of  the  human 
heart.  Even  the  unhappy  partner  of  our  kind, 
■who  is  undone,  the  bitter  consequence  of  his 
follies  or  his  crimes,  who  but  sympathizes  with 
the  miseries  of  this  ruined  profligate  brother  ? 
We  forget  the  injuries  and  feel  for  the  man. 

I  went,  last  Wednesday,  to  my  parish  church, 
most  cordially  to  join  in  grateful  acknowledg- 
ment to  the  Author  of  all  Good,  for  the  con- 
sequent blessings  of  the  glorious  revolution.  To 
that  auspicious  event  we  owe  no  less  than  our 
liberties,  civil  and  religious ;  to  it  we  are  like- 
wise indebted  for  the  present  Royal  Family,  the 
ruling  features  of  whose  administration  have 
ever  been  mildness  to  the  subject,  and  tender- 
ness of  his  rights. 

Bred  and  educated  in  revolution  principles, 


the  principles  of  reason  and  common  sense,  it 
could  not  be  any  silly  political  prejudice  which 
made  my  heart  revolt  at  the  harsh  abusive  man- 
ner in  which  the  reverend  gentleman  mentioned 
the  House  of  Stewart,  and  which,  I  am  afraid, 
was  too  much  the  language  of  the  day.  We 
may  rejoice  sufficiently  in  our  deliverance  from 
past  evils,  without  cruelly  raking  up  the  ashes 
of  those  whose  misfortune  it  was,  perliaps  as 
much  as  their  crime,  to  be  the  authors  of  those 
evils ;  and  we  may  bless  God  for  all  his  good- 
ness to  us  as  a  nation,  without  at  the  same  time 
cursing  a  few  ruined,  powerless  exiles,  who 
only  harboured  ideas,  and  made  attempts,  that 
most  of  us  would  have  done,  had  we  been  in 
their  situation. 

"  The  bloody  and  tyrannical  House  of  Stew- 
art" may  be  said  with  propriety  and  justice, 
when  compared  with  the  present  royal  family, 
and  the  sentiments  of  our  days ;  but  is  there 
no  allowance  to  be  made  for  the  manners  of 
the  times  ?  Were  the  royal  contemporaries  of 
the  Stewarts  more  attentive  to  their  subjects' 
rights  ?  Might  not  the  epithets  of  "bloody  and 
tyrannical"  be,  with  at  least  equal  justice, 
applied  to  the  House  of  Tudor,  of  York,  or  any 
other  of  their  predecessors  ? 

The  simple  state  of  the  case.  Sir,  seems  to  be 
this : — At  that  period,  the  science  of  govern- 
ment, the  knowledge  of  the  true  relation  be- 
tween king  and  subject,  was,  like  other  sciences 
and  other  knowledge,  just  in  its  infancy, 
emerging  from  dark  ages  of  ignorance  and  bar- 
barity. 

The  Stewarts  only  contended  for  prerogatives 
which  they  knew  their  predecessors  enjoyed, 
and  which  they  saw  their  contemporaries  enjoy- 
ing ;  but  these  prerogatives  were  inimical  to 
the  happiness  of  a  nation  and  the  rights  of  sub- 
jects. 

In  this  contest  between  prince  and  people, 
the  consequence  of  that  light  of  science  which 
had  lately  dawned  over  Europe,  the  monarch  of 
France,  for  example,  was  victorious  over  th^ 
struggling  liberties  of  his  people :  with  us, 
luckily  the  monarch  failed,  and  his  unwarrant- 
able pretensions  fell  a  sacrifice  to  our  rights 
and  happiness.  Whether  it  was  owing  to  the 
wisdom  of  leading  individuals,  or  to  the  just- 
ling  of  parties,  I  cannot  pretend  to  determine ; 
but  likewise  happily  for  us,  the  kingly  power 
was  shifted  into  another  branch  of  the  family, 
who,  as  they  owed  the  throne  solely  to  the  caU 


OF  ROBERT   BURNS. 


39d 


of  a  free  people,  could  claim  nothing  incon- 
sistent with  the  convenanted  terms  which  placed 
thein  there. 

The  Stewarts  have  been  condemned  and 
iaughed  at  for  the  folly  and  impracticability 
of  their  attempts  in  1715  and  1745.  That  they 
failed,  I  bless  God;  but  cannot  join  in  the 
ridicule  against  them.  Who  does  not  know  that 
the  abilities  or  defects  of  leaders  and  corn- 
mat  ders  are  often  hidden  until  put  to  the 
touchstone  of  exigency;  and  that  there  is  a 
caprice  of  fortune,  an  omnipotence  in  particular 
accidents  and  conjunctures  of  circumstances, 
which  exalt  us  as  heroes,  or  brand  us  as  mad- 
men, just  as  they  are  for  or  against  us  ? 

Man,  Mr.  Publisher,  is  a  strange,  weak,  in- 
consistent being  ;  who  would  believe.  Sir,  that 
in  this  our  Augustan  age  of  liberality  and  re- 
finement, while  we  seem  so  justly  sensible  and 
jealous  of  our  rights  and  liberties,  and  animated 
with  such  indignation  against  the  very  memory 
of  those  who  would  have  subverted  them — that 
a  certain  people  under  our  national  protection 
should  complain,  not  against  our  monarch  and 
a  few  favourite  advisers,  but  against  our  whole 
LEGISLATIVE  BODY,  for  similar  oppression,  and 
almost  in  the  very  same  terms,  as  our  forefa- 
thers did  of  the  house  of  Stewart !  I  will  not, 
I  cannot  enter  into  the  merits  of  the  cause ;  but 
I  dare  say  the  American  Congress,  in  1776,  will 
be  allowed  to  be  as  able  and  as  enlightened  as 
the  English  Convention  was  in  1688;  and  that 
their  posterity  will  celebrate  the  centenary  of 
their  deliverance  from  us,  as  duly  and  sincerely 
as  we  do  ours  from  the  oppressive  measures  of 
the  wrong-headed  House  of  Stewart. 

To  conclude,  Sir;  let  every  man  who  has  a 
tea:  *^or  the  many  miseries  incident  to  humanity 
feel  for  a  family  illustrious  as  any  in  Europe, 
and  unfortunate  beyond  historic  precedent;  and 
let  every  Briton  (and  particularly  every  Scots- 
man) who  ever  looked  with  reverential  pity  on 
the  dotage  of  a  parent,  cast  a  veil  over  the  fatal 
!r.l8tak>!  of  the  kings  of  his  forefathers. 

R.  B. 


OXXXIX. 

TO   MRS.   DUNLOP, 

AT    MOREHAM    MAINS. 

iThe  heifer  presented  to  the  poet  by  the  Dunlops  was 
oought,  at  the  sale  of  Rllisland  stock,  by  Milter  of  DaU 
■wiDton,  and  long  grazed  th«  pastures  in  his  "  policies" 
»y  Uie  name  o'"  '*  Burns."] 


Mauchline,  IZlh  November,  1788. 
Madam, 

I  HAD  the  very  great  pleasure  of  dining  at 
Dunlop  yesterday.  Men  are  said  to  flatter  wo- 
men because  they  are  weak ;  if  it  is  so,  poets 
must  be  weaker  still ;  for  Misses  R.  and  K.  and 
Miss  G.  M'K.,  with  their  flattering  attentions, 
and  artful  compliments,  absolutely  turned  my 
head.  I  own  they  did  not  lard  me  over  as 
many  a  poet  does  his  patron,  but  they  so  intoxi- 
cated me  with  their  sly  insinuations  and  deli- 
cate inuendos  of  compliment,  that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  lucky  recollection,  how  much  addi- 
tional weight  and  lustre  your  good  opinion  and 
friendship  must  give  me  in  that  circle,  I  had 
certainly  looked  upon  myself  as  a  person  of  no 
small  consequence.  I  dare  not  say  one  word 
how  much  I  was  charmed  with  the  Major's 
friendly  welcome,  elegant  manner,  and  acute  re- 
mark, lest  I  should  be  thought  to  overbalance 
my  orientalisms  of  applause  over-against  the 
finest  quey'  in  Ayrshire,  which  he  made  me  a 
present  pf  to  help  and  adorn  my  farm-stock. 
As  it  was  on  hallow-day,  I  am  determined  an- 
nually, as  that  day  returns,  to  decorate  her  horns 
with  an  ode  of  gratitude  to  the  family  of  Dunlop. 

So  soon  as  I  know  of  your  arrival  at  Dunlop, 
I  will  take  the  first  conveniency  to  dedicate  a 
day,  or  perhaps  two,  to  you  and  friendship, 
under  the  guarantee  of  the  Major's  hospitality. 
There  will  soon  be  threescore  and  ten  miles  of 
permanent  distance  between  us  ;  and  now  that 
your  friendship  and  friendly  correspondence  is 
entwisted  with  the  heart-strings  of  my  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  I  must  indulge  myself  in  a  happy 
day  of  "  The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of 
soul."  R.  B. 


CXL. 
TO   MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON, 

ENQRAVBK. 

[James  Johnson,  though  not  an  ungenerona  man, 
meanly  refused  to  give  a  copy  of  the  Musical  Museum  to 
Burns,  who  desired  to  bestow  it  on  one  to  whom  his 
family  was  deeply  indebted.  This  was  in  the  last  year 
of  the  poet's  life,  and  after  the  Museum  had  been  bright* 
ened  by  so  much  uf  his  lyric  verse.] 

Mauchline^  November  15/A,  1788. 
My  dear  Sib, 
I  HAVE  sent  you  two  more  songs.  If  you  have 

1  Heifer. 


S94 


GENEKAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


got  any  tunes,  or  anything  to  correct,  please 
send  them  by  return  of  the  carrier. 

I  can  easily  see,  my  dear  friend,  that  you 
will  very  probably  have  four  volumes.  Perhaps 
you  may  not  find  your  account  lucratively  in 
this  business ;  but  you  are  a  patriot  for  the 
music  of  your  country ;  and  I  am  certain 
posterity  will  look  on  themselves  as  highly  in- 
debted to  your  public  spirit.  Be  not  in  a  hurry; 
let  us  go  on  correctly,  and  your  name  shall  be 
immortal. 

I  am  preparing  a  flaming  preface  for  your 
third  volume.  I  see  every  day  new  musical 
publications  advertised;  but  what  are  they? 
Gaudy,  hunted  butterflies  of  a  day,  and  then 
vanish  for  ever :  but  your  work  will  outlive  the 
momentary  neglects  of  idle  fashion,  and  defy 
the  teeth  of  time. 

Have  you  never  a  fair  goddess  that  leads  you 
a  wild-goose  chase  of  amorous  devotion  ?  Let 
me  know  a  few  of  her  qualities,  such  as  whether 
she  be  rather  black,  or  fair ;  plump,  or  thin ; 
short,  or  tall,  &c.  ;  and  choose  your  air,  and  I 
shall  task  my  muse  to  celebrate  her. 

R.  B. 


CXLI. 

TO   DR.   BLACKLOCK. 

[Blacklock,  though  blind,  was  a  cheerful  and  good 
man.  "  There  was,  perhaps,  never  one  among  all  man- 
kind," says  Heron,  "whom  you  might  more  truly  have 
called  an  angel  upon  earth."} 

Mauchline,  November  15th,  1788. 

ReVEBEKD   ANT)   DEAE    SiR, 

As  I  hear  nothing  of  your  motions,  but  that 
you  are,  or  were,  out  of  town,  I  do  not  know 
where  this  may  find  you,  or  whether  it  will  find 
you  at  all.  I  wrote  you  a  long  letter,  dated 
from  the  land  of  matrimony,  in  June ;  but  either 
it  had  not  found  you,  or,  what  I  dread  more,  it 
found  you  or  Mrs.  Blacklock  in  too  precarious 
a  stat3  of  health  and  spirits  U  take  notice  of 
an  iili.  packet. 

I  have  done  many  little  things  for  Johnson,, 
since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  ;  and  1 
Lave  finished  one  piece,  in  the  way  of  Pope's 
"  Moral  Epistles ;"  but,  from  your  silence,  I 
have  everything  to  fear,  so  I  have  only  sent  you 
two  melancholy  things,  which  I  tremble  lest 
they  should  too  well  suit  the  tone  of  your  pre- 
sent feelings. 

In  a  fortnight  I  move,  bag  and  baggage,  to 


Nithsdale ;  till  then,  my  direction  is  at  this* 
place  ;  after  that  period,  it  will  be  at  Ellisland, 
near  Dumfries.  It  would  extremely  oblige  me, 
were  it  but  half  a  line,  to  let  me  know  how  you 
are,  and  where  you  are.  Can  I  be  indifl"erent 
to  the  fate  of  a  man  to  whom  I  owe  so  much  ? 
A  man  whom  I  not  only  esteem,  but  venerate. 

My  warmest  good  wishes  and  most  respectful 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Blacklock,  and  Miss  John- 
ston, if  she  is  with  you. 

I  cannot  conclude  without  telling  you  that  I 
am  more  and  more  pleased  with  the  step  I 
took  respecting  '*  my  Jean."  Two  things,  from 
my  happy  experience,  I  set  down  as  apothegms 
in  life.  A  wife's  head  is  immaterial,  com- 
pared with  her  heart ;  and — *'  Virtue's  (for  wis- 
dom what  poet  pretends  to  it?)  ways  are  ways 
of  pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths  are  peace." 
Adieu !  R.  B. 

[Here  follow  "  The  Mother's  Lament  for  the  Loss  of 
her  Son,"  and  the  song  beginning  "  The  lazy  mist  hangt 
from  the  brow  of  the  hill."] 


CXLII. 

TO   MRS.   D UNDO  P. 

[The  "Auld  lang  sjnie,"  wh-.cli  Burns  here  introduces 
to  Mrs.  Dunlop  as  a  strain  of  tha  olden  time,  is  as  surely 
his  own  as  Tam-o-Shanter.] 

Ellisland,  11  th  December,  1788. 
My  dear  honoured  Friend, 
Yours,  dated  Edinburgh,  which  I  have  just 
read,  makes  me  very  unhappy.  "Almost  blind 
and  wholly  deaf,"  are  melancholy  news  of 
human  nature  ;  but  w\en  told  of  a  much-loved 
and  honoured  fri^ad,  ihey  carry  misery  in  the 
sound.  Goodaesa  on  your  part,  and  gratitude 
on  mine,  begjn  a  tie  which  has  gradually  en- 
twisted  itself  araoDg  th'j  dearest  chords  of  my 
bosom,  and  J  tretr/bie  at  che  omens  of  your  late 
and  present  ailirg  haoii  and  shattered  health. 
You  miscaleula'^e  uaatterd  widely,  when  you  for- 
bid my  wa;tlrir,  on  you,  lest  it  should  hurt  my 
worldly  coucr^i^i.  My  small  scale  of  farming 
is  exceediflfjly  more  simple  and  easy  than  what 
you  have  IaliA'j  seen  at  Moreham  Mains.  But, 
be  that  9J  it  may,  the  heart  of  the  man  and  the 
fancy  of  the  poet  are  the  two  grand  considera- 
tions for  which  I  live  :  if  miry  ridges  and  dirty 
dunghills  are  to  engross  the  best  part  of  the 
functions  of  my  soul  immortal,  I  had  better  been 
a  rook  or  a  magpie  at  once,  and  then  I  should 


OF   ROBEllT    iiL'KiXS 


39& 


not  have  been  plagued  with  any  ideas  superior 
to  breaking  of  clods  and  picking  up  grubs ;  not 
to  mention  barn-door  cocks  or  mallards,  crea- 
tures with  which  I  could  almost  exchange  lives 
at  any  time.  If  you  continue  so  deaf,  I  am 
afraid  a  visit  will  be  no  great  pleasure  to  either 
of  us  ;  but  if  I  hear  you  are  got  so  well  again 
as  tc  be  able  to  relish  conversation,  look  you 
to  it,  Madam,  for  I  will  make  my  threaten- 
ings  good.  I  am  to  be  at  the  New-year-day 
fair  of  Ayr  ;  and,  by  all  that  is  sacred  in  the 
world,  friend,  I  will  come  and  see  you. 

Your  meeting,  which  you  so  well  describe, 
with  your  old  schoolfellow  and  friend,  was 
truly  interesting.  Out  upon  the  ways  of  the 
world! — They  spoil  "these  social  offsprings  of 
the  heart."  Two  veterans  of  the  "men  of  the 
world"  would  have  met  with  little  more  heart- 
workings  than  two  old  hacks  worn  out  on  the 
road.  Apropos,  is  not  the  Scotch  phrase,  "Auld 
lang  syne,"  exceedingly  expressive  ?  There  is 
an  old  song  and  tune  which  has  often  thrilled 
through  my  soul.  You  know  I  am  an  enthusiast 
in  old  Scotch  songs.  I  shall  give  you  the  verses 
on  the  other  sheet,  as  I  suppose  Mr.  Ker  will 
save  you  the  postage. 

"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot  !"l 

Light  be  the  turf  on  the  breast  of  the  heaven- 
inspired  poet  who  composed  this  glorious  frag- 
ment. There  is  more  of  the  fire  of  native  genius 
in  it  than  in  half-a-dozen  of  modern  English 
Bacchanalians!  Now  I  am  on  my  hobby-horse, 
I  cannot  help  inserting  two  other  old  stanzas, 
which  please  me  mightily: — 

"  Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  of  wine. "2 

R.  B. 


CXLIII. 
TO   MISS   DAVIES. 

[The  Laird  of  Gienriddel  informed  <'  the  charming, 
V)vely  Davies"  that  Burns  was  composing  a  song  in  her 
pra:s».  The  poet  acted  on  this,  and  sent  the  song,  en- 
closed in  this  characteristic  letter.] 

December,  1788. 
Madam, 

I  UNDERSTAND  my  Tcry  worthy  neighbour, 
Mr.  Riddel,  has  informed  you  that  I  have  made 
you  the  subject  of  some  verses.  There  is  some- 
thing so  provoking  in  the  idea  of  being  the  bur- 
then of  a  ballad,  that  I  do  not  think  Job  or 
Moses,  though  such  patterns  of  patience  and 


See  Song  CCX. 


2  See  Song  LXXII. 


meekness,  could  have  resisted  the  curiosity  to 
know  what  that  ballad  was :  so  my  worthy 
friend  has  done  me  a  mischief,  which  I  dare  say 
he  never  intended ;  and  reduced  me  to  the  un 
fortunate  alternative  of  leaving  your  curiosity 
ungratified,  or  else  disgusting  you  with  foolish 
verses,  the  unfinished  production  of  a  random 
moment,  and  never  meant  to  have  met  your 
ear.  I  have  heard  or  read  somewhere  of  a 
gentleman  who  had  some  genius,  much  eccen- 
tricity, and  very  considerable  dexterity  with  his 
pencil.  In  the  accidental  group  of  life  into 
which  one  is  thrown,  wherever  this  gentleman 
met  with  a  character  in  a  more  than  ordinary 
degree  congenial  to  his  heart,  he  used  to  steal 
a  sketch  of  the  face,  merely,  he  said,  as  a  nota 
bene,  to  point  out  the  agreeable  recollection  to 
his  memory.  What  this  gentleman's  pencil  was 
to  him,  my  muse  is  to  me ;  and  the  verses  I  do 
myself  the  honour  to  send  you  are  a  memento 
exactly  of  the  same  kind  that  he  indulged  in. 

It  may  be  more  owing  to  the  fastidiousness 
of  my  caprice  than  the  delicacy  of  my  taste  ; 
but  I  am  so  often  tired,  disgusted  and  hurt  with 
insipidity,  affectation,  and  pride  of  mankind, 
that  when  I  meet  with  a  person  "after  my  own 
heart,"  I  positively  feel  what  an  orthodox  Pro- 
testant would  call  a  species  of  idolatry,  which 
acts  on  my  fancy  like  inspiration ;  and  I  can 
no  more  desist  rhyming  on  the  impulse,  than 
an  jEolian  harp  can  refuse  its  tones  to  the 
streaming  air.  A  distich  or  two  would  be  the 
consequence,  though  the  object  which  hit  my 
fancy  were  gray-bearded-age ;  but  where  my 
theme  is  youth  and  beauty,  a  young  lady  whose 
personal  charms,  wit,  and  sentiment  are  equally 
striking  and  unaffected— by  heavens!  though 
I  had  lived  three  score  years  a  married  man, 
and  three  score  years  before  I  was  a  mar- 
ried man,  my  imagination  would  hallow  the 
very  idea :  and  I  am  truly  sorry  that  the  in- 
closed stanzas  have  done  such  poor  justice  to 
such  a  subject. ,  R.  B. 


CXLIV. 

TO   MR.   JOHN   TENNANT. 

[The  mill  of  John  Currie  stood  on  a  small  stream  which 
fed  the  loch  of  Friar's  Curse — near  the  house  of  tlie  dame 
of  whom  be  sang,  "  Sic  a  wife  us  Willie  had."] 

December  22,  1788. 
I TSSTBRDAT  tried  my  cask  of  whiskey  for  th« 
first  time,  and  I  assure  you  it  does  you  great 


396 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


credit.  It  will  bear  five  waters  strong ;  or  six 
ordinary  toddy.  The  whiskey  of  this  country 
is  a  most  rascally  liquor  ;  and,  by  consequence, 
only  drank  by  the  most  rascally  part  of  the  in- 
habitants. I  am  persuaded,  if  you  once  get  a 
fo  3ting  here,  you  might  do  a  great  deal  of  busi- 
ness, in  the  way  of  consumpt ;  and  should  you 
commence  distiller  again,  this  is  the  native 
barley  country.  I  am  ignorant  if,  in  your  pre- 
Eeut  way  of  dealing,  you  would  think  it  worth 
your  while  to  extend  your  business  so  far  as 
this  pountry  side.  I  write  you  this  on  the 
account  of  an.  accident,  which  I  must  take  the 
merit  of  having  partly  designed  to.  A  neigh- 
bour of  mine,  a  John  Currie,  miller  in  Carse- 
mill — a  man  who  is,  in  a  word,  a  "very"  good 
man,  even  for  a  £500  bargain — he  and  his  wife 
were  in  my  house  the  time  I  broke  open  the 
cask.  They  keep  a  country  public-house  and 
sell  a  great  deal  of  foreign  spirits,  but  all  along 
thought  that  whiskey  would  have  degraded  this 
house.  They  were  perfectly  astonished  at  my 
whiskey,  both  for  its  taste  and  strength ;  and, 
by  their  desire,  I  write  you  to  know  if  you  could 
supply  them  with  liquor  of  an  equal  quality, 
and  what  price.  Please  write  me  by  first  post, 
and  direct  to  me  at  Ellisland,  near  Dumfries. 
If  you  could  take  a  jaunt  this  way  yourself,  I 
have  a  spare  spoon,  knife  and  fork  very  much  at 
your  service.  My  compliments  to  Mrs.  Ten- 
nant,  and  all  the  good  folks  in  Glenconnel  and 
Barquharrie.  R.  B. 


CXLV. 

TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[The  feeling  mood  of  moral  reflection  exhibited  in  the 
following  letter,  was  common  to  the  house  of  William 
Burns  :  in  a  letter  addressed  by  Gilbert  to  Robert  of  this 
date,  the  poet  is  reminded  of  the  early  vicissitudes  of 
their  name,  and  desired  to  look  up,  and  be  thankful.] 

Ellisland,  New-year-day  Morning,  1789. 
This,  dear  Madam,  is  a  morning  of  wishes, 
and  would  to  God  that  I  came  under  the  apostle 
James's  description  ! — the  prayer  of  a  righteous 
man  availcth  much.  In  that  case,  Madam,  you 
should  welcome  in  a  year  full  of  blessings : 
everything  that  obstructs  or  disturbs  tranquil- 
lity and  self-enjoyment,  should  be  removed, 
and  every  pleasure  that  frail  humanity  can 
taste,  should  be  yours.  I  own  myself  so  little 
a  Presbyterian,  that  I  approve  of  set  times  and 
feeasons  of  more  than  ordinary  acts  of  devotion, 


for  breaking  in  on  that  habitual  routine  of  lifa 
and  thought,  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our  exist- 
ence to  a  kind  of  instinct,  or  even  sometimes, 
and  with  some  minds,  to  a  state  very  little  su- 
perior to  mere  machinery. 

This  day,  the  first  Sunday  of  May,  a  breezy, 
blue-skyed  noon  some  time  about  the  beginning, 
and  a  hoary  morning  and  calm  sunny  day  about 
the  end,  of  autumn;  these,  time  out  of  mind, 
have  been  with  me  a  kind  of  holiday. 

I  believe  I  owe  this  to  that  glorious  paper  in 
the  Spectator,  "  The  Vision  of  Mirza,"  a  piece 
that  struck  my  young  fancy  before  I  was  capa- 
ble of  fixing  an  idea  to  a  word  of  three  syllables : 
"On  the  6th  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according 
to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep 
holy,  after  having  washed  myself,  and  ofiered  up 
my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended  the  high  hill 
of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day 
in  meditation  and  prayer." 

We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  the 
substance  or  structure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot 
account  for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them, 
that  one  should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this 
thing,  or  struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a 
difi"erent  cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impres- 
sion. I  have  some  favourite  flowers  in  spring, 
among  which  are  the  mountain-daisy,  the  hare- 
bell, the  fox-glove,  the  wild  brier-rose,  the  bud- 
ding birch,  and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view 
and  hang  over  with  particular  delight.  I  never 
hear  the  loud  solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew  in 
a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence  of 
a  troop  of  grey  plovers,  in  an  autumnal  morn- 
ing, without  feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like 
the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me, 
my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be  owing  ?  Are 
we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  iEolian 
harp,  passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  pass- 
ing accident  ?  Or  do  these  workings  argue 
something  within  us  above  the  trodden  clod  ?  I 
own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of  those  aw- 
ful and  important  realities — a  God  that  made  all 
things — man's  immaterial  and  immortal  nature 
— and  a  world  of  weal  or  woe  beyond  death  and 
the  grave.  R.  B. 


CXLVI. 
TO  DR.    MOORE. 

[The  poet  seems,  in  this  letter^  to  perceive  fhat  Fills- 
land  was  not  the  bargain  he  had  reckoned  it :  iie  intimated, 


OF   HOBJ^RT   BURNS. 


897 


ts  the  render  will  remember,  something  of  the  same  kind 
to  Margaret  Chalmers.] 


Sir, 


Mlisland,  4:th  Jan.  17! 


As  often  as  I  think  of  writing  to  you,  -which 
has  been  three  or  four  times  every  week  these 
six  months,  it  gives  me  something  so  like  the 
idea  of  an  ordinary-sized  statue  offering  at  a 
conversation  with  the  Rhodian  colossus,  that  my 
mind  misgives  me,  and  the  affair  always  mis- 
carries somewhere  between  purpose  and  resolve. 
I  have  at  last  got  some  business  with  you,  and 
business  letters  are  written  by  the  stylebook.  I 
Bay  my  business  is  with  you,  Sir,  for  you  never 
had  any  with  me,  except  the  business  that  be- 
nevolence has  in  the  mansion  of  poverty. 

The  character  and  employment  of  a  poet  were 
formerly  my  pleasure,  but  are  now  my  pride.  I 
know  that  a  very  great  deal  of  my  late  eclat 
was  owing  to  the  singularity  of  my  situation,  and 
the  honest  prejudice  of  Scotsmen ;  but  still,  as 
I  said  in  the  preface  to  my  first  edition,  I  do 
look  upon  myself  as  having  some  pretensions 
from  Nature  to  the  poetic  character.  I  have  not 
a  doubt  but  the  knack,  the  aptitude,  to  learn 
the  muses'  trade,  is  a  gift  bestowed  by  him 
"  who  forms  the  secret  bias  of  the  soul ;" — but 
I  as  firmly  believe,  that  excellence  in  the  profes- 
sion is  the  fruit  of  industry,  labour,  attention, 
and  pains.  At  least  I  am  resolved  to  try  my 
doctrine  by  the  test  of  experience.  Another 
appearance  from  the  press  I  put  off  to  a  very 
distant  day,  a  day  that  may  never  arrive — but 
poesy  I  am  determined  to  prosecute  with  all  my 
vigour.  Nature  has  given  very  few,  if  any,  of 
the  profession,  the  talents  of  shining  in  every 
species  of  composition.  I  shall  try  (for  until 
trial  it  is  impossible  to  know)  whether  she  has 
qualified  me  to  shine  in  any  one.  The  worst  of 
it  is,  by  the  time  one  has  finished  a  piece,  it 
has  been  so  often  viewed  and  reviewed  before 
the  mental  eye,  that  one  loses,  in  a  good  mea- 
sure, the  powers  of  critical  discrimination. 
Here  the  best  criterion  I  know  is  a  friend — not 
only  of  abilities  to  judge,  but  with  good-nature 
enough,  like  a  prudent  teacher  with  a  young 
learner,  to  praise  perhaps  a  Kttle  more  than  is 
exactly  just,  lest  the  thin-skinned  animal  fall 
into  that  most  deplorable  of  all  poetic  diseases 
— heart-breaking  despondency  of  himself.  Dare 
I,  Sir,  already  immensely  indebted  to  your  good- 
Dess,  ask  the  additional  obligation  of  your  being 
that  friend  to  me  ?  I  enclose  you  an  essay  of  mine 
in  a  walk  of  poesy  to  me  entirely  new ;  I  mean 


the  epistle  addressed  to  R.  G.  Esq.  or  R,obert 
Graham  of  Fintray,  Esq.,  a  gentleman  of  uncom- 
mon worth,  to  whom  I  lie  under  very  great  ob- 
ligations. The  story  of  the  poem,  like  most  o* 
my  poems,  is  connected  with  my  own  story,  and 
to  give  you  the  one,  I  must  give  you  something 
of  the  other.  I  cannot  boast  of  Mr.  Creech's 
ingenuous  fair  dealing  to  me.  He  kept  me 
hanging  about  Edinburgh  from  the  7th  August, 
1787,  until  the  13th  April,  1788,  before  he 
would  condescend  to  give  me  a  statement  of 
affairs  ;  nor  had  I  got  it  even  then,  but  for  an 
angry  letter  I  wrote  him,  which  irritated  his 
pride.  "I  could"  not  a  "tale"  but  a  detail 
"unfold,"  but  what  am  I  that  should  speak 
against  the  Lord's  anointed  Bailie  of  Edin- 
burgh ? 

I  believe  I  shall  in  the  whole,  lOOZ.  copy-right 
included,  clear  about  400Z.  some  little  odds  ;  and 
even  part  of  this  depends  upon  what  the  gentle 
man  has  yet  to  settle  with  me.  I  give  you  this 
information,  because  you  did  me  the  honour  to 
interest  yourself  much  in  my  welfare.  I  give 
you  this  information,  but  I  give  it  to  yourself 
only,  for  I  am  still  much  in  the  gentleman's 
mercy.  Perhaps  I  injure  the  man  in  the  idea 
I  am  sometimes  tempted  to  have  of  him — God 
forbid  I  should  !  A  little  time  will  try,  for  in  a 
month  I  shall  go  to  town  to  wind  up  the  busi- 
ness if  possible. 

To  give  the  rest  of  my  story  in  brief,  I  have 
married  *'  my  Jean,"  and  taken  a  farm :  with 
the  first  step  I  have  every  day  more  and 
more  reason  to  be  satisfied :  with  the  last,  it  is 
rather  the  reverse.  I  have  a  younger  brother, 
who  supports  my  aged  mother ;  another  still 
younger  brother,  and  three  sisters,  in  a  farm. 
On  my  last  return  from  Edinburgh,  it  cost  me 
about  180Z.  to  save  them  from  ruin.  Not  that 
I  have  lost  so  much. — I  only  interposed  between 
my  brother  and  his  impending  fate  by  the  loan 
of  so  much.  I  give  myself  no  airs  on  this,  for 
it  was  mere  selfishness  on  my  part :  I  was  con- 
scious that  the  wrong  scale  of  the  balance  was 
pretty  heavily  charged,  and  I  thought  *hat 
throwing  a  little  filial  piety  and  fraternal  affec- 
tion into  the  scale  in  my  favour,  might  nelp  to 
smooth  matters  at  the  grand  reckoning.  There 
is  still  one  thing  would  make  my  circumstances 
quite  easy :  I  have  an  excise  officer's  commis- 
sion, and  I  live  in  the  midst  of  a  country  divi- 
sion. My  request  to  Mr.  Graham,  who  is  one 
of  the  commissioners  of  excise,  was,  if  in  his 
power,  to  procure  me  that  division.     If  I  wer« 


B98 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


very  sanguine,  I  might  hope  that  some  of  my 
great  patrons  might  procure  me  a  Treasury 
warrant  for  supervisor,  surveyor-general,  &c. 

Thus,  secure  of  a  livelihood,  "  to  thee,  sweet 
poetry,  delightful  maid,"  I  would  consecrate 
my  future  days.  R.  B. 


CXLVII. 

TO   MR.   ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

[The  song  which  the  poet  says  he  brushed  up  a  little 
is  nowhere  mentioned :  he  wrote  one  hundred,  and 
brushed  up  more,  for  the  Museum  of  Johnson.] 

Ellisland,  Jan.  6,  1789. 
Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  to  you, 
my  dear  Sir !  May  you  be  comparatively  happy 
up  to  your  comparative  worth  among  the  sons 
of  men ;  which  wish  would,  I  am  sure,  make 
you  one  of  the  most  blest  of  the  human  race. 

I  do  not  know  if  passing  a  "Writer  to  the 
signet,"  be  a  trial  of  scientific  merit,  or  a  mere 
business  of  friends  and  interest.  However  it 
be,  let  me  quote  you  my  two  favourite  passages, 
which,  though  I  have  repeated  them  ten  thou- 
sand times,  still  they  rouse  my  manhood  and 
Bteel  my  resolution  like  inspiration. 

-'^  On  reason  build  resolve, 

That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man." 

Young.    Night  Thoughts. 
"Hear,  Alfred,  hero  of  the  state, 
Thy  genius  heaven's  high  will  declare; 
The  triumph  of  the  truly  great. 
Is  never,  never  to  despair  I 
Is  never  to  despair!" 

Thomson.  Masque  of  Alfred. 
I  grant  you  enter  the  lists  of  life,  to  struggle 
for  bfead,  business,  notice,  and  distinction,  in 
common  with  hundreds. — But  who  are  they? 
Men,  like  yourself,  and  of  that  aggregate  body 
your  compeers,  seven-tenths  of  them  come  short 
of  your  advantages  natural  and  accidental ; 
while  two  of  those  that  remain,  either  neglect 
their  parts,  as  flowers  blooming  in  a  desert,  or 
mis-spend  their  strength,  like  a  bull  goring  a 
bramble-bush. 

But  to  change  the  theme :  I  am  still  catering 
for  Johnson's  publication;  and  among  others, 
I  have  brushed  up  the  following  old  favourite 
Bong  a  little,  with  a  view  to  your  worship.  I 
have  only  altered  a  word  here  and  there  ;  but  if 
you  like  the  humour  of  it,  we  shall  think  of  a 
stanza  or  two  to  add  to  it. 

R.  B. 


CXLVIII. 

TO  PROFESSOR  DUGALD  STEWART. 

[The  iron  justice  to  which  the  poet  alludes,  in  th.'s  let- 
ter, was  exercised  by  Dr.  Gregory,  on  the  poem  of  the 
"  Wounded  Hare."] 


SiK, 


Ellisland,    20th  Jan,  1789. 


The  enclosed  sealed  packet  I  sent  to  Edin- 
burgh, a  few  days  after  I  had  the  happiness  of 
meeting  you  in  Ayrshire,  but  you  were  gone  for 
the  Continent.  I  have  now  added  a  few  more  of 
my  productions,  those  for  which  I  am  indebted 
to  the  Nithsdale  muses.  The  piece  inscribed  to 
R.  G.  Esq.,  is  a  copy  of  verses  I  sent  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, of  Fintray,  accompanying  a  request  for  his 
assistance  in  a  matter  to  me  of  very  great  mo- 
ment. To  that  gentleman  I  am  already  doubly 
indebted,  for  deeds  of  kindness  of  serious  im- 
port to  my  dearest  interests,  done  in  a  manner 
grateful  to  the  delicate  feelings  of  sensibility. 
This  poem  is  a  species  of  composition  new  to 
me,  but  I  do  not  intend  it  shall  be  my  last  essny 
of  the  kind,  as  you  will  see  by  the  •'  Poet's  Pro- 
gress." These  fragments,  if  my  design  succeed, 
are  but  a  small  part  of  the  intended  whole.  I 
propose  it  shall  be  the  work  of  my  utmost  ex- 
ertions, ripened  by  years ;  of  course  I  do  not 
wish  it  much  known.  The  fragment  beginning 
"A  little,  upright,  pert,  tart,  &c.,"  I  have  not 
shown  to  man  living,  till  I  now  send  it  you.  It 
forms  the  postulata,  the  axioms,  the  definition 
of  a  character,  which,  if  it  appear  at  all,  shall 
be  placed  in  a  variety  of  lights.  This  particu- 
lar part  I  send  you  merely  as  a  sample  of  my 
hand  at  portrait-sketching,  but,  lest  idle  con- 
jecture should  pretend  to  point  out  the  origi- 
nal, please  to  let  it  be  for  your  single,  sole  in- 
spection. 

Need  I  make  any  apology  for  this  trouble,  to 
a  gentleman  who  has  treated  me  with  such 
marked  benevolence  and  peculiar  kindness — 
who  has  entered  into  my  interests  with  so  much 
zeal,  and  on  whose  critical  decisions  I  can  so 
fully  depend  ?  A  poet  as  I  am  by  trade,  these 
decisions  are  to  me  of  the  last  consequence. 
My  late  transient  acquaintance  among  some  of 
the  mere  rank  and  file  of  greatness,  I  resign 
with  ease ;  but  to  the  distinguished  champions 
of  genius  and  learning,  I  shall  be  ever  ambi- 
tious of  being  known.  The  native  genius  and 
accurate  discernment  in  Mr.  Stewart's  critical 
strictures  ;  the  justness  (iron  justice,  for  he  has 
no  bowels  of  compassion  for  a  poor  poetic  sin- 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


399 


ner)  of  l)r.  Gregory's  remarks,  and  the  delicacy 
of  Professor  Dalzel's  taste,  I  shall  ever  revere. 

I   shall   be   in   Edinburgh    some   time   next 
month. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir, 

Your  highly  obliged,  and  very 

Humble  servant, 
R.  B. 


CXLIX. 

TO  BISHOF   GEDDES. 

[A  exander  Gekles  was  a.  controversialist  and  poet, 
*nd  a  bishop  of  the  brok***!  remn:int  of  the  Catholic 
Church  of  Scotland  :  he  is  known  as  the  author  of  a 
very  humorous  ballad  ca'Ved  "  The  Wee  bit  Wifickie," 
%n(i  as  tlie  translator  of  one  of  the  books  of  the  Iliad,  In 
opposition  to  Cowpe;  > 

Ellisland,  ^d  Feb.  1789, 
Venerable  Father, 

As  I  am  conscious  that  wherever  I  am,  you  do 
me  the  honour  to  interest  yourself  in  my  wel- 
fare, it  gives  me  pleasure  to  inform  you  that  I 
am  here  at  last,  stationary  in  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  life,  and  have  now  not  only  the  retired 
leisure,  but  the  hearty  inclination,  to  attend  to 
those  great  and  important  questions  —  what 
I  am  ?  where  I  am  ?  and  for  what  I  am  des- 
tined? 

In  that  first  concern,  the  conduct  of  the  man, 
there  was  ever  but  one  side  on  which  I  was  ha- 
bitually blameable,  and  there  I  have  secured 
myself  in  the  way  pointed  out  by  Nature  and 
Nature's  God.  I  was  sensible  that  to  so  help- 
less a  creature  as  a  poor  poet,  a  wife  and 
family  were  encumbrances,  which  a  species  of 
prudence  would  bid  him  shun ;  but  when  the 
alternative  was,  being  at  eternal  warfare  with 
myself,  on  account  of  habitual  follies,  to  give 
them  no  worse  name,  which  no  general  example, 
no  licentious  wit,  no  sophistical  infidelity,  would, 
to  me  ever  justify,  I  must  have  been  a  fool  to 
have  hesitated,  and  a  madman  to  have  made 
another  choice.  Besides,  I  had  in  "my  Jean" 
a  long  and  much-loved  fellow-creature's  happi- 
ness or  misery  among  my  hands,  and  who  could 
trifle  with  such  a  deposit? 

In  the  affair  of  a  livelihood,  I  think  myself 
tolerably  secure:  I  have  good  hopes  of  my 
farm,  but  should  they  fail,  I  have  an  excise  com- 
mission, which  on  my  simple  petition,  will,  at 
s.'By  time,  procure  me  bread.    There  is  a  certain 

.*gma  affix»i  to  the  character  of  an  Excise 


officer,  but  I  do  not  pretend  to  borrow  honour 
from  my  profession  ;  and  though  the  salary  be 
comparatively  small,  it  is  luxury  to  anything 
that  the  first  twenty-five  years  of  my  life  taught 
me  to  expect. 

Thus,  with  a  rational  aim  and  method  in  life, 
you  may  easily  guess,  my  reverend  and  much- 
honoured  friend,  that  my  characteristical  trade 
is  not  forgotten.  I  am,  if  possible,  more  than 
over  an  enthusiast  to  the  muses.  I  am  deter- 
mined to  study  man  and  nature,  and  in  that 
view  incessantly ;  and  to  try  if  the  ripening  and 
corrections  of  years  can  enable  me  to  produce 
something  worth  preserving. 

You  will  see  in  your  book,  which  I  beg  your 
pardon  for  detaining  so  long,  that  I  have  been 
tuning  my  lyre  on  the  banks  of  Nith.  Some 
large  poetic  plans  that  are  floating  in  my  ima 
gination,  or  partly  put  in  execution,  I  shall  im- 
part to  you  when  I  have  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing with  you ;  which,  if  you  are  then  in  Edin- 
burgh, I  shall  have  about  the  beginning  of  March. 

That  acquaintance,  worthy  Sir,  with  which 
you  were  pleased  to  honour  me,  you  must  still 
allow  me  to  challenge ;  for  with  whatever  un- 
concern I  give  up  my  transient  connexion  with 
the  merely  great,  those  self-important  beings 
whose  intrinsic  *  *  *  *  [con]cealed  under  the 
accidental  advantages  of  their  *  *  *  *  I  cannot 
lose  the  patronizing  notice  of  the  learned  and 

good,  without  the  bitterest  regret. 

R.  B 


CL. 


TO   MR.  JAMES   BURNESS. 

[Fanny  Burns  married  Adam  Armour,  brother  to  bon 
nie  Jean,  went  with  him  to  Mauchline,  and  bore  hinr 
sons  and  daughters.] 

Ellisland,  9M  Feb.  1789. 
Mt  dear  Sir, 
Why  I  did  not  write  to  you  long  ago,  is  what 
even  on  the  rack,  I  could  not  answer.  If  yon 
can  in  your  mind  form  an  idea  of  indolence,  dis- 
sipation, hurry,  cares,  change  of  country,  enter 
ing  on  uT^ried  scenes  of  life,  all  combined,  you 
will  save  me  the  trouble  of  a  blushing  apology. 
It  could  not  be  want  of  regard  for  a  man  for 
whom  I  had  a  high  esteem  before  I  knew  him — 
an  esteem  which  has  much  increased  since  I  did 
know  him ;  and  this  caveat  entered,  I  shall 
plead  guilty  to  any  other  indictment  with  which 
you  shall  please  to  charge  me 


400 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


After  I  had  parted  from  you  for  many  months 
my  life  was  one  continued  scene  of  dissipation. 
Here  at  last  I  am  become  stationary,  and  have 
taken  a  farm  and — a  wife. 

The  farm  is  beautifully  situated  on  the  Nith, 
a  large  river  that  runs  by  Dumfries,  and  falls 
into  the  Solway  frith.  I  have  gotten  a  lease  of 
my  farm  as  long  as  I  pleased :  but  how  it  may 
turn  out  is  just  a  guess,  it  is  yet  to  improve 
and  enclose,  &c. ;  however,  I  have  ^ood  hopes 
of  my  bargain  on  the  whole. 

My  wife  is  my  Jean,  with  whose  story  you  are 
partly  acquainted.  I  found  I  had  a  much-loved 
fellow  creature's  happiness  or  misery  among  my 
hands,  and  I  durst  not  trifle  with  so  sacred  a 
deposit.  Indeed  I  have  not  any  reason  to  re- 
pent the  step  I  have  taken,  as  I  have  attached 
myself  to  a  very  good  wife,  and  have  shaken 
myself  loose  of  every  bad  failing. 

I  have  found  my  book  a  very  profitable  busi- 
ness, and  with  the  profits  of  it  I  have  begun 
life  pretty  decently.  Should  fortune  not  favour 
me  in  farming,  as  I  have  no  great  faith  in  her 
fickle  ladyship,  I  have  provided  myself  in  an- 
other resource,  which  however  some  folks  may 
aflfect  to  despise  it,  is  still  a  comfortable  shift 
in  the  day  of  misfortune.  In  the  heyday  of  my 
fame,  a  gentleman  whose  name  at  least  I  dare 
say  you  know,  as  his  estate  lies  somewhere  near 
Dundee,  Mr.  Graham,  of  Fintray,  one  of  the 
commissioners  of  Excise,  ofi"ered  me  the  commis- 
sion of  an  Excise  ofl&cer.  I  thought  it  prudent 
to  accept  the  ofi'er;  and  accordingly  I  took  my 
instructions,  and  have  my  commission  by  me. 
Whether  I  may  ever  do  duty,  or  be  a  penny  the 
better  for  it,  is  what  I  do  not  know ;  but  I  have 
the  comfortable  assurance,  that  come  whatever 
ill  fate  will,  I  can,  on  my  simple  petition  to  the 
Excise-board,  get  into  employ. 

We  have  lost  poor  uncle  Robert  this  winter. 
He  has  long  been  very  weak,  and  with  very  lit- 
tle alteration  on  him,  he  expired  3d  Jan. 

His  son  William  has  been  with  me  this  winter, 
and  goes  in  May  to  be  an  apprentice  to  a  mason. 
His  other  son,  the  eldest,  John,  comes  to  me  I 
expect  in  summer.  They  are  both  remarkably 
stout  young  fellows,  and  promise  to  do  well. 
His  only  daughter,  Fanny,  has  been  with  me 
ever  since  her  father's  death,  and  I  purpose 
keeping  her  in  my  family  till  she  be  quite  woman 
grown,  and  fit  for  service.  She  is  one  of  the 
cleverest  girls,  and  has  one  of  the  most  amiable 
dispositions  I  have  ever  seen. 
All  friends  in  this  country  and  Ayrshire  are 


well.  Remember  me  to  all  friends  in  the  north 
My  wife  joins  me  in  compliments  to  Mrs.  B.  and 
family. 

I  am  ever,  my  dear  Cousin, 

Yours,  sincerely, 

R.  B. 


CLI. 


TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[The  beautiful  lines  with  which  this  letter  concludes, 
I  have  reason  to  believe  were  the  production  of  the  lady 
to  whom  the  epistle  is  addressed.] 

Ellisland,  4th  March,  1789. 

Hekb  am  I,  my  honoured  friend,  returned 
safe  from  the  capital.  To  a  man,  who  has  a 
home,  however  humble  or  remote — if  that  home 
is  like  mine,  the  scene  of  domestic  comfort — the 
bustle  of  Edinburgh  will  soon  be  a  business  of 
sickening  disgust. 

'  Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  you  !''' 

When  I  must  skulk  into  a  corner,  lest  the  rat 
tling  equipage  of  some  gaping  blockhead  should 
mangle  me  in  the  mire,  I  am  tempted  to  exclaim 
— "  What  merits  has  he  had,  or  what  demerit 
have  I  had,  in  some  state  of  pre-existence,  that 
he  is  ushered  into  this  state  of  being  with  the 
sceptre  of  rule,  and  the  key  of  riches  in  his  puny 
fist,  and  I  am  kicked  into  the  world,  the  sport 
of  folly,  or  the  victim  of  pride  ?"  I  have  read 
somewhere  of  a  monarch  (in  Spain  I  think  it 
was),  who  was  so  out  of  humour  with  the  Ptole- 
mean  system  of  astronomy,  that  he  said  had 
he  been  of  the  Ckeator's  council,  he  could 
have  saved  him  a  great  deal  of  labour  and  ab- 
surdity. I  will  not  defend  this  blasphemouu 
speech ;  but  often,  as  I  have  glided  with  humble 
stealth  through  the  pomp  of  Princes'  street,  it 
has  suggested  itself  to  me,  as  an  improvement 
on  the  present  human  figure,  that  a  man  in  pro- 
portion to  his  own  conceit  of  his  consequence  in 
the  world,  could  have  pushed  out  the  longitude 
of  his  common  size,  as  a  snail  pushes  out  his 
horns,  or,  as  we  draw  out  a  perspective.  This 
trifling  alteration,  not  to  mention  the  prodigious 
saving  it  would  be  in  the  tear  and  wear  of  the 
neck  and  limb-sinews  of  many  of  his  majesty's 
liege  subjects,  in  the  way  of  tossing  the  head 
and  tiptoe  strutting,  would  evidently  turn  out  a 
vast  advantage,  in  enabling  us  at  once  to  adjust 
the  ceremonials  in  making  a  bow,  or  making 
way  to  a  great  man,  and  that  too  within  a  second 
of  the  precise  spherical  angle  of  reverence,  or 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


401 


an  inch  of  the  particular  point  of  respectful  dis- 
tance, which  the  important  creature  itself  re- 
quires;  AS  a  measuring-glance  at  its  tower- 
ing altitude,  would  determine  the  affair  like 
instinct. 

You  are  right.  Madam,  in  your  idea  of  poor 
Mylne's  poem,  which  he  has  addressed  to  me. 
The  piece  has  a  good  deal  of  merit,  but  it  has 
one  great  fault — it  is,  by  far,  too  long.    Besides, 
my  success  has  encouraged  such  a  shoal  of  ill- 
spawned  monsters  to  crawl  into  public  notice, 
under  the  title  of  Scottish  Poets,  that  the  very 
term  Scottish  Poetry  borders  on  the  burlesque. 
"When  I  write  to  Mr.  Carfrae,  I  shall  advise  him 
rather  to  try  one  of  his  deceased  friend's  English 
pieces.     I  am  prodigiously  hurried  with  my  own 
matters,  else  I  would  have  requested  a  perusal 
of  all  Mylne's  poetic  performances  ;  and  would 
have  offered  his  friends  my  assistance  in  either 
selecting  or  correcting  what  would  be  proper 
for  the  press.     What  it  is  that  occupies  me  so 
much,  and  perhaps  a  little  oppresses  my  pre- 
sent spirits,  shall  fill  up  a  paragraph  in  some 
future  letter.     In  the  mean  time,  allow  me  to 
close  tkis  epistle  with  a  few  lines  done  by  a 
friend  of  mine  *  *  •*  •x-  *.     I  give  you  them,  that 
as  you  have  seen  the  original,  you  may  guess 
whether  one  or  two  alterations  I  have  ventured 
to  make  in  them,  be  any  real  improvement. 
*'  Like  the  fair  plant  that  from  our  touch  withdraws, 
Shrink,  mildly  fearful,  even  from  applause, 
lie  all  a  mother's  fondest  hope  can  dream. 
And  all  you  are,  my  charming  .  .  .  .,  seem. 
Straight  as  the  fox-glove,  ere  her  bells  disclose, 
Mild  as  the  maiden-blushing  hawthorn  blows, 
Fair  as  the  fairest  of  each  lovely  kind, 
Your  form  shall  be  the  image  of  your  mind ; 
Your  manners  shall  so  true  your  soul  express, 
That  all  shall  long  to  know  the  worth  they  guess  : 
Congenial  hearts  shall  greet  with  kindred  love, 
And  ev'n  sick'niug  envy  must  approye." 

R.  B. 


CLII. 

TO   THE   REV.  PETER  CARFRAE. 

[Myine  was  a  worthy  and  a  modest  man    he  died  of 
tn  intlarariiatory  fever  in  the  prime  of  life.] 

1789. 
Rev.  Sir, 
I  DO  not  recollect  that  I  have  ever  felt  a  se- 
verer pang  of  shame,  than  on  looking  at  the 
date  of  your  obliging  letter  which  accompanied 
Mr.  Mylne's  poem. 
I  am  much  to  blame :  the  honour  Mr.  Mylne 


has  done  me,  greatly  enhanced  in  its  value  by 
the  endearing,  though  melancholy  circumstance, 
of  its  being  the  last  production  of  his  muse,  de 
served  a  better  return. 

I  have,  as  you  hint,  thought  of  sending  a 
copy  of  the  poem  to  some  periodical  publica 
tion;  but,  on  second  thoughts,  I  am  afraid,  that 
in  the  present  case,  it  would  be  an  improper 
step.  My  success,  perhaps  as  much  accidental 
as  merited,  has  brought  an  inundation  of  non- 
sense under  the  name  of  Scottish  poetry.  Sub- 
scription-bills for  Scottish  poems  have  so  dun- 
ned, and  daily  do  dun  the  public,  that  the  very 
name  is  in  danger  of  contempt.  For  these  rea 
sons,  if  publishing  any  of  Mr.  Mylne's  poems  in 
a  magazine,  &c.,  be  at  all  prudent,  in  my 
opinion  it  certainly  should  not  be  a  Scottish 
poem.  The  profits  of  the  labours  of  a  man  of 
genius  are,  I  hope,  as  honourable  as  any  profits 
whatever ;  and  Mr.  Mylne's  relations  are  most 
justly  entitled  to  that  honest  harvest,  which 
fate  has  denied  himself  to  reap.  But  let  the 
friends  of  Mr.  Mylne's  fame  (among  whom  I 
crave  the  honour  of  ranking  myself)  always 
keep  in  eye  his  respectability  as  a  man  and  as 
a  poet,  and  take  no  measure  that,  before  the 
world  knows  anything  about  him,  would  risk 
his  name  and  character  being  classed  with  the 
fools  of  the  times. 

I  have,  Sir,  some  experience  of  publishing; 
and  the  way  in  which  I  would  proceed  with  Mr. 
Mylne's  poem  is  this : — I  would  publish,  in  two  or 
three  English  and  Scottish  public  papers,  any 
one  of  his  English  poems  which  should,  by  pri- 
vate judges,  be  thought  the  most  excellent,  and 
mention  it,  at  the  same  time,  as  one  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  a  Lothian  farmer,  of  respectable 
character,  lately  deceased,  whose  poems  his 
friends  had  it  in  idea  to  publish,  soon,  by  sub- 
scription, for  the  sake  of  his  numerous  family : 
— not  in  pity  to  that  family,  but  in  justice  to 
what  his  friends  think  the  poetic  merits  of  the 
deceased ;  and  to  secure,  in  the  most  effectual 
manner,  to  those  tender  connexions,  whose  right 
it  is,  the  pecuniary  reward  of  those  merits. 

B.  B. 


CLlll. 

TO   DR.    MOORE. 

[Edward  Nielson,  whom  Bums  here  introduces  to  Dr. 
Moore,  was  minister  of  Kirkbean,  on  the  Solwav-iid* ' 


«02 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


he  was  a  jovial  man,  and  loved  good  cheer,  and  merry 
company.] 


Sir, 


Fllisland,  23c?  March,  17! 


The  gentleman  who  will  deliver  you  this  is  a 
Mr,  Nielson,  a  worthy  clergyman  in  my  neigh- 
bourhood, and  a  very  particular  acquaintance 
of  mine.  As  I  have  troubled  him  with  this 
packet,  I  must  turn  him  over  to  your  goodness, 
to  recompense  him  for  it  in  a  way  in  which  he 
much  needs  your  assistance,  and  where  you  can 
effectually  serve  him : — Mr,  Nielson  is  on  his 
way  for  France,  to  wait  on  his  Grace  of  Queens- 
berry,  on  some  little  business  of  a  good  deal  of 
importance  to  him,  and  he  wishes  for  your  in- 
structions respecting  the  most  eligible  mode  of 
travelling,  &c.,  for  him,  when  he  has  crossed 
the  channel,  I  should  not  have  dared  to  take 
this  liberty  with  you,  but  that  I  am  told,  by 
those  who  have  the  honour  of  your  personal 
acquaintance,  that  to  be  a  poor  honest  Scotch- 
man is  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  you,  and 
that  to  have  it  in  your  power  to  serve  such  a 
character,  gives  you  much  pleasure. 

The  enclosed  ode  is  a  compliment  to  the  me- 
mory of  the  late  Mrs.  Oswald,  of  Auchencruive. 
You,  probably,  knew  her  personally,  an  honour 
of  which  I  cannot  boast ;  but  I  spent  my  early 
years  in  her  neighbourhood,  and  among  her 
servants  and  tenants.  I  know  that  she  was  de- 
tested with  the  most  heart-felt  cordiality.  How- 
ever, in  the  particular  part  of  her  conduct  which 
Toused  my  poetic  wrath,  she  was  much  less 
blameable.  In  January  last,  on  my  road  to 
Ayrshire,  I  had  put  up  at  Bailie  Wigham's  in 
Sanquhar,  the  only  tolerable  inn  in  the  place. 
The  frost  was  keen,  and  the  grim  evening  and 
howling  wind  were  ushering  in  a  night  of  snow 
and  drift.  My  horse  and  I  were  both  much  fa- 
tigued with  the  labours  of  the  day,  and  just  as 
my  friend  the  Bailie  and  I  were  bidding  defiance 
\o  the  storm,  over  a  smoking  bowl,  in  wheels 
the  funeral  pageantry  of  the  late  great  Mrs. 
Oswald,  and  poor  T  am  forced  to  brave  all  the 
horrors  of  the  tempestuous  night,  and  jade  my 
horse,  my  young  favourite  horse,  whom  I  had 
ju»t  christened  Pegasus,  twelve  miles  fai-ther 
on,  through  the  wildest  moors  and  hills  of  Ayr- 
shire, to  New  Cumnock,  the  next  inn.  The 
powers  of  poesy  and  prose  sink  under  me,  when 
I  would  describe  what  I  felt.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  when  a  good  fire  at  New  Cumnock  had  so 
far  recovered  my  frozen  sinews,  I  sat  down  and 
wrote  the  enclosed  ode. 


I  was  at  Edinburgh  lately,  and  settled  finally 
with  Mr.  Creech ;  and  I  must  own,  that,  at  last, 
he  has  been  amicable  and  fair  with  me. 

R.  L. 


CLIV. 

TO   MR.   WILLIAM   BURNS. 

[William  Burns  was  the  youngest  brother  of  the  poet : 
he  was  bred  a  sadler;  went  to  Longtown,  and  finally  ta 
London,  where  he  died  early.] 

Isle,  March  26th,  1789. 
I  HAVE  stolen  from  my  corn-sowing  this  minute 
to  write  a  line  to  accompany  your  shirt  and  hat, 
for  I  can  no  more.  Your  sister  Maria  arrived 
yesternight,  and  begs  to  be  remembered  to  you. 
Write  me  every  opportunity,  never  mind  post- 
age. My  head,  too,  is  as  addle  as  an  egg,  this 
morning,  with  dining  abroad  yesterday.  I  re- 
ceived yours  by  the  mason.  Forgive  me  this 
foolish-looking  scrawl  of  an  epistle. 
I  am  ever, 

My  dear  William, 

Yours, 

R.  B. 
P.  S.  If  you  are  not  then  gone  from  Longtown, 
I'll  write  you  a  long  letter,  by  this  day  se' en- 
night.  If  you  should  not  succeed  in  your  tramps, 
don't  be  dejected,  or  take  any  rash  step — re- 
turn to  us  in  that  case,  and  we  will  court  for- 
tune's better  humour.  Remember  this,  I  charge 
you.  R.  B. 


CLV. 

TO   MR.    HILL. 

[The  Monkland  Book  Club  existed  only  while  Robert 
Riddel,  of  the  Friars-Carse,  lived,  or  Burns  had  leisure 
to  attend:  such  institutions,  when  well  conducted,  are 
very  beneficial,  when  not  oppressed  by  divinity  and  verse, 
as  they  sometimes  are.] 

Ellisland,  2d  April,  1789. 

I  WILL  make  no  excuse,  my  dear  Bibliopolus 
(God  forgive  me  for  murdering  language  !)  that 
1  have  sat  down  to  write  you  on  this  vile  paper. 

It  is  economy.  Sir  ;  it  is  that  cardinal  virtue, 
prudence  :  so  I  beg  you  will  sit  down,  and  either 
compose  or  borrow  a  panegyric.  If  you  are 
going  to  borrow,  apply  to  *  *  *  *  to  compose,  or 
rather  to  compound,  something  very  clever  on 
my  remarkable  frugality ;  that  I  write  to  one  of 
my  most  esteemed  friends  on  this  wretched 
paper,  which  was  originally  intended  for  the 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


4Uti 


renal  fist  of  some  drunken  exciseman,  to  take 
dirty  notes  in  a  miserable  vault  of  an  ale-cel- 
lar. 

0  Frugality!  thou  mother  of  ten  thousand 
blessings — thou  cook  of  fat  beef  and  dainty 
greens ! — thou  manufacturer  of  warm  Shetland 
hose,  and  comfortable  surtouts ! — thou  old  house- 
wife, darning  thy  decayed  stockings  with  thy 
ancient  spectacles  on  thy  aged  nose  ! — lead  me, 
hand  me  in  thy  clutching  palsied  fist,  up  those 
heights,  and  through  those  thickets,  hitherto  in- 
accessible, and  impervious  to  my  anxious,  weary 
feet : — not  those  Parnassian  crags,  bleak  and 
barren,  where  the  hungry  worshippers  of  fame 
are  breathless,  clambering,  hanging  between 
heaven  and  hell ;  but  those  glittering  cliffs  of 
Potosi,  where  the  all-sufficient,  all  powerful 
deity.  Wealth,  holds  his  immediate  court  of  joys 
and  pleasures ;  where  the  sunny  exposure  of 
plenty,  and  the  hot  walls  of  profusion,  produce 
those  blissful  fruits  of  luxury,  exotics  in  this 
world,  and  natives  of  paradise ! — Thou  withered 
sibyl,  my  sage  conductress,  usher  me  into  thy 
refulgent,  adored  presence  ! — The  power,  splen- 
did and  potent  as  he  now  is,  was  once  the  puling 
nursling  of  thy  faithful  care,  and  tender  arms ! 
Call  me  thy  son,  thy  cousin,  thy  kinsman,  or 
favourite,  and  adjure  the  god  by  the  scenes  of 
his  infant  years,  no  longer  to  repulse  me  as  a 
stranger,  or  an  alien,  but  to  favour  me  with  his 
peculiar  countenance  and  protection  ? — He  daily 
bestows  his  greatest  kindness  on  the  undeserv- 
ing and  the  worthless — assure  him,  that  I  bring 
ample  documents  of  meritorious  demerits ! 
Pledge  yourself  for  me,  that,  for  the  glorious 
cause  of  Lucre,  I  will  do  anything,  be  anything 
— but  the  horse-leech  of  private  oppression,  or 
the  vulture  of  public  robbery ! 

But  to  descend  from  heroics. 

1  want  a  Shakspeare ;  I  want  likewise  an 
English  dictionary — Johnson's,  I  suppose,  is 
best.  In  these  and  all  my  prose  commissions,  the 
cheapest  is  always  the  best  for  me.  There  is  a 
email  debt  of  honour  that  I  owe  Mr.  Robert 
(^leghorn,  in  Saughton  Mills,  my  worthy  friend, 
and  your  well-wisher.  Please  give  him,  and 
urge  him  to  take  it,  the  first  time  you  see  him, 
ten  shillings  worth  of  anything  you  have  to  sell, 
und  place  it  to  my  account. 

The  library  scheme  that  I  mentioned  to  you, 
Is  already  begun,  under  the  direction  of  Captain 
Riddel.  There  is  another  in  emulation  of  it 
going  on  at  Closeburn,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr. 
Monteith,   of  Closeburn,  which  will   be   on   a 


greater  scale  than  ours.  Capt.  Riddel  gave  hit 
infant  society  a  great  many  of  his  old  books, 
else  I  had  written  you  on  that  subject ;  but 
one  of  these  days,  I  shall  trouble  you  with  a 
commission  for  "The  Monkland  Friendly  Socie- 
ty"— a  copy  of  The  Spectator,  Mirror,  and 
Lounger,  Man  of  Feeling,  Man  of  the  Wcrld, 
Guthrie^ s  Geographical  Grammar,  with  some  re- 
ligious pieces,  will  likely  be  our  first  order. 

When  I  grow  richer,  I  will  write  to  you  on 
gilt  post,  to  make  amends  for  this  sheet.  At 
present,  every  guinea  has  a  five  guinea  errand 
with.  My  dear  Sir, 

Your  faithful,  poor,  but  honest,  friend, 

R.  B 


CLVI. 
TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[Some  lines  which  extend,  but  fail  to  finish  the  sketch 
contained  in  this  letter,  will  be  found  elsewhere  in  this 
publication.] 

Ellisland,  4th  April,  1789. 

I  NO  sooner  hit  on  any  poetic  plan  or  fancy, 
but  I  wish  to  send  it  to  you :  and  if  knowing 
and  reading  these  give  half  the  pleasure  to  you, 
that  communicating  them  to  you  gives  to  me,  I 
am  satisfied. 

I  have  a  poetic  whim  in  my  head,  which  I  at 
present  dedicate,  or  rather  inscribe  to  tLe  Right 
Hon.  Charles  James  Fox;  but  how  long  that 
fancy  may  hold,  I  cannot  say.  A  few  of  the 
first  lines,  I  have  just  rough-sketched  as  fol- 
lows : 

SKETCH. 

How  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite ; 
How  virtue  and  vice  blend  their  black  and  their 

white  ; 
How  genius,  the  illustrious  father  of  fiction, 
Confounds  rule  and  law,  reconciles  contradio 

tion — 
I  sing :  If  these  mortals,  the  critics,  shoull  bu8« 

tie, 
I  care  not,  not  I,  let  the  critics  go  whistle. 

But  now  for  a  patron,  whose  name  and  whose 
giory. 
At  once  may  illustrate  and  honour  my  story. 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits  ; 
Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem  mere 
lucky  hits ; 


404 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment  so 

strong, 
No  man  with    the    half  of  'em    e'er  went  far 

wrong ; 
With  passion  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright, 
No  man  with  the   half  of  'em  ere  went  quite 

right ; 
A  sorry,  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  muses, 
For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses. 

On  the  20th  current  I  hope  to  have  the  ho- 
nour of  assuring  you  in  person,  how  sincerely  I 
am—  R.  B. 


CLVII. 
TO   MR.   WILLIAM   BURNS, 

SADLER, 
CARE    OF   MR.   WRIGHT,  CARRIER,    LONGTOWN. 

["  Never  to  despair"  was  a  favourite  saying  with 
Burns:  and  "firm  resolve,"  he  held,  with  Young,  to  be 
"the  column  of  true  majesty  in  num."] 

Me,  I5th  April,  1789. 
My  deab  William, 
I  AM  extremely  sorry  at  the  misfortune  of  your 
legs  ;  I  beg  you  will  never  let  any  worldly  con- 
cern interfere  with  the  more  serious  matter, 
the  safety  of  your  life  and  limbs.  I  have  not 
time  in  these  hurried  days  to  write  you  any- 
thing other  than  a  mere  how  d'ye  letter.  I  will 
only  repeat  my  favourite  quotation  : — 

"What  proves  the  hero  truly  great 
,  Is  never,  never  to  despair." 

My  house  shall  be  your  welcome  home ;  and  as 
I  know  your  prudence  (would  to  God  you  had 
resolution  equal  to  your  prudence  !)  if  anywhere 
at  a  distance  from  friends,  you  should  need 
money,  you  know  my  direction  by  post. 

The  enclosed  is  from  Gilbert,  brought  by  your 
Bister  Nanny.  It  was  unluckily  forgot.  Yours 
to  Gilbert  goes  by  post. — I  heard  from  them 
yesterday,  they  are  all  well. 

Adieu. 

R.  B. 


CLVIII. 
TO   MRS.   M'MURDO, 

DRUMLANRIG. 

Of  this  \ccomplished  lady,  Mrs.  M'Murdo,  of  Drum 
Borig,  and  her  daughters,  something  has  been  said  in  the 


notes  on  the  songs :  the  poem  alluded  to  was  the  song  o/ 
"Bonnie  Jean."] 

Ellisland,  2d  May,  1789. 

Mapam, 
I  HAVE  finished  the  piece  which  had  the  happj 
fortune  to  be  honoured  with  your  approbation ; 
and  never  did  little  miss  with  more  sparkling 
pleasure  show  her  applauded  sampler  to  partial 
mamma,  than  I  now  send  my  poem  to  you  and 
Mr.  M'Murdo  if  he  is  returned  to  Drumlanrig. 
You  cannot  easily  imagine  what  thin-skinned 
animals — what  sensitive  plants  poor  poets  are. 
How  do  we  shrink  into  the  embittered  corner  of 
self-abasement,  when  neglected  or  condemned 
by  those  to  whom  we  look  up  !  and  how  do  we, 
in  erect  importance,  add  another  cubit  to  our 
stature  on  being  noticed  and  applauded  by  those 
whom  we  honour  and  respect!  My  late  visit  to 
Drumlanrig  has,  I  can  tell  you,  Madam,  given 
me  a  balloon  waft  up  Parnassus,  where  on  my 
fancied  elevation  I  regard  my  poetic  self  with  no 
small  degree  of  complacency.  Surely  with  all 
their  sins,  the  rhyming  tribe  are  not  ungrateful 
creatures. — I  recollect  your  goodness  to  your 
humble  guest — I  see  Mr.  M'Murdo  adding  to  the 
politeness  of  the  gentleman,  the  kindness  of  a 
friend,  and  my  heart  swells  as  it  would  burst, 
with  warm  emotions  and  ardent  wishes  !  It  may 
be  it  is  not  gratitude — it  may  be  a  mixed  sen- 
sation. That  strange,  shifting,  doubling  ani- 
mal MAN  is  so  generally,  at  best,  but  a  negative, 
often  a  worthless  creature,  that  we  cannot  see 
real  goodness  and  native  worth  without  feeling 
the  bosom  glow  with  sympathetic  approbation. 

With  every  sentiment  of  grateful  respect, 
I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
Madam, 
Your  obliged  and  grateful  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


CLIX. 
TO   MR.   CUNNINGHAM. 

[Honest  Jamie  Thomson,  who  shot  the  hare  because 
she  browsed  with  her  companions  on  his  father's 
"wheat-braird,"  had  no  idea  he  was  pulling  down  such 
a  burst  of  itiiignation  on  his  head  as  this  letter  with  the 
poem  which  it  enclosed  expresses.] 

Ellisland,  Ath  May,  1789. 
My  dear  Sir, 
Your  duty-free  favour  of  the  26th  April  I  re- 
ceived two  days  ago  ;  I  will  not  say  I  perused  W 
with  pleasure  ;  that  is  the  cold  compliment  of 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS 


4(J& 


ceremony ;  I  perused  it,  Sir,  with  delicious  sa- 
tisfactioa; — in  short,  it  is  such  a  letter,  that  not 
you,  nor  your  friend,  but  the  legislature,  by  ex- 
press proviso  in  their  postage  laws,  should  frank. 

A  letter  informed  with  the  soul  of  friendship 
is  such  an  honour  to  human  nature,  that  they 
should  order  it  free  ingress  and  egress  to  and 
from  their  bags  and  mails,  as  an  encourage- 
ment and  mark  of  distinction  to  supereminent 
virtue. 

I  have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  a  little  poem 
which  I  think  will  be  something  to  your  taste. 
One  morning  lately,  as  I  was  out  pretty  early 
in  the  fields,  sowing  some  grass  seeds,  I  heard 
the  burst  of  a  shot  from  a  neighbouring  planta- 
tion, and  presently  a  poor  little  wounded  hare 
came  crippling  by  me.  You  will  guess  my  in- 
dignation at  the  inhuman  fellow  who  could  shoot 
a  hare  at  this  season,  when  all  of  them  have 
young  ones.  Indeed  there  is  something  in  that 
business  of  destroying  for  our  sport  individuals 
in  the  animal  creation  that  do  not  injure  us  ma- 
terially, which  I  could  never  reconcile  to  my 
ideas  of  virtue. 

Inhuman  man !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art, 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye ! 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart ! 
&c.         &c. 

Let  me  know  how  you  like  my  poem.  I  am 
doubtful  whether  it  would  not  be  an  improve- 
ment to  keep  out  the  last  stanza  but  one  alto- 
gether. 

Cruikshank  is  a  glorious  production  of  the 
author  of  man.  You,  he,  and  the  noble  Colonel 
of  the  Crochallan  Fencibles  are  to  me 

"Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  which  warm  my  heart  " 

I  have  a  good  mind  to  make  verses  on  you 
all,  to  the  tune  of  "  Three  guid  fellows  ayont  the 
glen:'  R.  B. 


CLX. 

TO  MR.    SAMUEL   BROWN. 

[Sfimuel  Brown  was  brother  to  the  poet's  mother :  ha 
leems  to  have  l)een  a  joyous  sort  of  person,  who  loved  a 
'oke,  and  understood  double  meanings] 

Mossffiel,  Ath  May,  1789. 
Dear  Unclb, 
This,  I  hope,  will  find  you  and  your  conjugal 
joke-fellow  in  your  good  old  way  ;  I  am  impa- 


tient to  know  if  the  Ailsa  fowling  be  commenced 
for  this  season  yet,  as  I  want  three  or  four 
stones  of  feathers,  and  I  hope  you  will  bespeak 
them  for  me.  It  would  be  a  vain  attempt  for 
me  to  enumerate  the  various  transactions  i 
have  been  engaged  in  since  I  saw  you  last,  but 
this  knew, — I  am  engaged  in  a  smuggling  trade, 
and  God  knows  if  ever  uny  poor  man  expe- 
rienced better  returns,  two  for  one,  but  as  fi eight 
and  delivery  have  turned  out  so  dear,  I  am 
thinking  of  taking  out  a  license  and  beginning 
in  fair  trade.  I  have  taken  a  farm  on  the  bor- 
ders of  the  Nith,  and  in  imitation  of  the  old 
Patriarchs,  get  men-servants  and  maid-ser- 
vants, and  flocks  and  herds,  and  beget  sons  and 
daughters. 

Your  obedient  nephew, 

R.  B. 


CLXI. 
TO   RICHARD   BROWN. 

[Burns  was  much  attached  to  Brovni ;  and  one  regrets 
that  an  inconsiderate  word  should  have  estranged  the 
haughty  sailor.] 

Mauchline,  2.1st  May,  1789. 
My  dear  Friend, 

I  WAS  in  the  country  by  accident,  and  hearing 
of  your  safe  arrival,  I  could  not  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  wishing  you  joy  on  your  return,  wish- 
ing you  would  write  to  me  before  you  sail  again, 
wishing  you  would  always  set  me  down  as  your 
bosom  friend,  wishing  you  long  life  and  pros- 
perity, and  that  every  good  thing  may  attend 
you,  wishing  Mrs.  Brown  and  your  little  ones 
as  free  of  the  evils  of  this  world,  as  is  consistent 
with  humanity,  wishing  you  and  she  were  to 
make  two  at  the  ensuing  lying-in,  with  which 
Mrs.  B.  threatens  very  soon  to  favour  me,  wish 
ing  I  had  longer  time  to  write  to  you  at  pre- 
sent ;  and,  finally,  wishing  that  if  thei-e  is  tc  be 
another  state  of  existence,  Mr.  B.,  Mrs.  B.,  our 
little  ones,  and  both  families,  and  you  and  I, 
in  some  snug  retreat,  may  make  a  jovial  paitj 
to  all  eternity ! 

My  direction  is  at  Ellisland,  near  Dumfries 
Yours, 

E.  B, 


106 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


CLXII. 

TO   MR.    JAMES   HAMILTON. 

[James  Hamilton,  grocer,  in  Glasgow,  interested  hid- 
lelf  early  in  the  fortunes  of  the  poet.] 

miisland,  2Qth  May,  1789. 
Dear  Sir, 

I  SKND  you  by  John  Glover,  carrier,  the  ac- 
count for  Mr.  Turnbull,  as  I  suppose  you  know 
his  address. 

I  would  fain  offer,  my  dear  Sir,  a  word  of 
sympathy  with  your  misfortunes  ;  but  it  is  a 
tender  string,  and  I  know  not  how  to  touch  it. 
It  is  easy  to  flourish  a  set  of  high-flown  senti- 
ments on  the  subjects  that  would  give  great 
satisfaction  to — a  breast  quite  at  ease  ;  but  as 
ONE  observes,  who  was  very  seldom  mistaken  in 
the  theory  of  life,  "The  heart  knoweth  its  own 
sorrows,  and  a  stranger  intermeddleth  not  there- 
with." 

Among  some  distressful  emergencies  that  I 
have  experienced  in  life,  I  ever  laid  this  down 
as  my  foundation  of  comfort — That  he  who  has 
lived  the  life  of  an  honest  man,  has  by  no  means 
lived  in  vain  ! 

With  every  wish  for  your  welfare  and  future 
success, 

I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Sincerely  yours, 

R.  B. 


CLXIII. 

TO  WILLIAM  CREECH,   ESQ. 

[The  poetic  address  to  the  "  venomed  stang"  of  the 
toothache  seems  to  have  come  into  existence  about  this 
time.] 


Sir, 


Ellisland,  ZQth  May,  1789. 


I  HAD  intended  to  have  troubled  you  with  a 
long  letter,  but  at  present  the  delightful  sensa- 
tions of  an  omnipotent  toothache  so  engross  all 
my  inner  man,  as  to  put  it  out  of  my  power 
even  to  write  nonsense.  However,  as  in  duty 
bound,  I  approach  my  bookseller  with  an  offer- 
ing in  my  hand — a  few  poetic  clinches,  and  a 
song : — To  expect  any  other  kind  of  offering 
from  the  Rhyming  Tribe  would  be  to  know  them 
much  less  than  you  do.  I  do  not  pretend  that 
there  is  much  merit  in  these  morceaux,  but  I 
have  two  reasons  for  sending  them  ;  primo,  they 
are  mostly  ill-natured,  so  are  in  unison  with  my 
present  feelings,  while  fifty  troops  of  infernal 


spirits  are  driving  post  from  ear  to  ear  along 
my  jaw-bones;  and  secondly,  they  are  so  short, 
that  you  cannot  leave  off  in  the  middle,  and  so 
hurt  my  pride  in  the  idea  that  you  found  any 
work  of  mine  too  heavy  to  get  through. 

I  have  a  request  to  beg  of  you,  and  I  not  only 
beg  of  you,  but  conjure  you,  by  all  your  wishes 
and  by  all  your  hopes,  that  the  muse  will  spare 
the  satiric  wink  in  the  moment  of  your  foibles ; 
that  she  will  warble  the  song  of  rapture  round 
your  hymeneal  couch ;  and  that  she  will  shed 
on  your  turf  the  honest  tear  of  elegiac  grati- 
tude !  Grant  my  request  as  speedily  as  possible 
— send  me  by  the  very  first  fly  or  coach  for  this 
place  three  copies  of  the  last  edition  of  my 
poems,  which  place  to  my  account. 

Now  may  the  good  things  of  prose,  and  the 
good  things  of  verse,  come  among  thy  hands, 
until  they  be  filled  with  the  good  things  of  thii 
life,  prayeth  R.  B. 


CLXIV. 

TO   MR.    M'AULEY. 

[The  poet  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  M'Auley,  of 
Dumbarton,  in  one  of  his  northern  tours, — he  was  intro* 
duced  by  his  friend  Kennedy.] 

Ellisland,  4th  June,  1789. 
Dear  Sir, 

Though  I  am  not  without  my  fears  respect- 
ing my  fate,  at  that  grand,  universal  inquest  of 
right  and  wrong,  commonly  called  The  Last  Bay, 
yet  I  trust  there  is  one  sin,  which  that  arch- 
vagabond,  Satan,  who  I  understand  is  to  be 
king's  evidence,  cannot  throw  in  my  teeth,  I 
mean  ingratitude.  There  is  a  certain  pretty 
large  quantum  of  kindness  for  which  I  remain, 
and  from  inability,  I  fear,  must  still  remain, 
your  debtor  ;  but  though  unable  to  repay  the 
debt,  I  assure  you.  Sir,  I  shall  ever  warmly 
remember  the  obligation.  It  gives  me  the  sin- 
cerest  pleasure  to  hear  by  my  old  acquaintance, 
Mr.  Kennedy,  that  you  are,  in  immortal  Allan's 
language,  "Hale,  and  weel,  and  living;"  and 
that  your  charming  family  are  well,  and  pro 
mising  to  be  an  amiable  and  respectable  addi- 
tion to  the  company  of  performers,  whom  the 
Great  Manager  of  the  Drama  of  Man  is  bring- 
ing into  action  for  the  succeeding  age. 

With  respect  to  my  welfare,  a  subject  in  which 
you  once  warmly  and  effectively  interested  your- 
self, I  am  here  in  my  old  way,  holding  my 
plough,  marking  tlie  growth  of  my  corn,  or  th« 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


407 


health  of  my  dairy;  and  at  times  sauntering  by 
the  delightful  windings  of  tile  Nith,  on  the  mar- 
gin of  which  I  have  built  my  humble  domicile, 
prating  for  seasonable  weather,  or  holding  an 
.titrigue  with  the  muses;  the  only  gipsies  with 
whom  I  have  now  any  intercourse.  As  I  am 
entered  into  the  holy  state  of  matrimony,  I  trust 
my  face  is  turned  completely  Zion-ward ;  and 
as  it  is  a  rule  with  all  honest  fellows  to  repeat  no 
grievances,  I  hope  that  the  little  poetic  licenses 
of  former  days  will  of  course  fall  under  the 
oblivious  influence  of  some  good-natured  statute 
of  celestial  prescription.  In  my  family  devo- 
tion, which,  like  a  good  Presbyterian,  I  occa- 
sionally give  to  my  household  folks,  I  am  ex- 
tremely fond  of  that  psalm,  "  Let  not  the  errors 
of  my  youth,"  &c.,  and  that  other,  <'  Lo,  children 
are  God's  heritage,"  &c.,  in  which  last  Mrs. 
Burns,  who  by  the  bye  has  a  glorious  "wood- 
note  wild"  at  either  old  song  or  psalmody,  joins 
me  with  the  pathos  of  Handel's  Messiah. 

R.  B. 


CLXV. 

TO   MR.   ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

[The  following  high-minded  letter  may  be  regarded  as 
a  sermon  on  domestic  morality  preached  by  one  of  the 
experienced.] 

Ellisland,  Sth  June,  1789. 
My  dear  Friend, 

I  AM  perfectly  ashamed  of  myself  when  I  look 
at  the  date  of  your  last.  It  is  not  that  I  forget 
the  friend  of  my  heart  and  the  companion  of  my 
peregrinations ;  but  I  have  been  condemned  to 
drudgery  beyond  suflFerance,  though  not,  thank 
God,  beyond  redemption.  I  have  had  a  collec- 
tion of  poems  by  a  lady,  put  into  my  hands  to 
prepare  them  for  the  press ;  which  horrid  task, 
with  sowing  corn  with  my  own  hand,  a  parcel 
of  masons,  wrights,  plasterers,  &c.,  to  attend  to, 
roaming  on  business  through  Ayrshire — all  this 
was  against  me,  and  the  very  first  dreadful  ar- 
ticle was  of  itself  too  much  for  me. 

1 3th.  I  have  not  had  a  moment  to  spare  from 
incessant  toil  since  the  Sth.  Life,  my  dear  Sir, 
is  a  perious  matter.  You  know  by  experience 
ti*.«.  a  man's  individual  self  is  a  good  deal,  but 
belie /e  me,  a  wife  and  family  of  children,  when- 
ever you  have  the  honour  to  be  a  husband  and 
a  father,  will  show  you  that  your  present  and 
most  anxious  hours  of  solitude  are  spent  on 
trifles.  The  welfare  of  those  who  are  very  dear 
*Q  us,  whose  only  support,  hope,   and  stay  we 


are — this,  to  a  generous  mind,  is  another  sorl 
of  more  important  object  of  care  than  any  con- 
cerns whatever  which  centre  merely  in  the  indi- 
vidual. On  the  other  hand,  let  no  young,  un- 
married, rakehelly  dog  among  you,  make  a 
song  of  his  pretended  liberty  and  freedom  from 
care.  If  the  relations  we  stand  in  to  king, 
country,  kindred,  and  friends,  be  anything  l.u* 
the  visionary  fancies  of  dreaming  metaphysi- 
cians ;  if  religion,  virtue,  magnanimity,  gene- 
rosity, humanity  and  justice,  be  aught  but  empty 
sounds ;  then  the  man  who  may  be  said  to  live 
only  for  others,  for  the  beloved,  honourable 
female,  whose  tender  faithful  embrace  endears 
life,  and  for  the  helpless  little  innocents  who  are 
to  be  the  men  and  women,  the  worshippers  of 
his  God,  the  subjects  of  his  king,  and  the  sup- 
port, nay  the  very  vital  existence  of  his  country 
in  the  ensuing  age ; — com^iare  such  a  man  with 
anyfellow  whatever,  who,  whether  he  bustle  and 
push  in  business  among  labourers,  clerks,  states- 
men ;  or  whether  he  roar  and  rant,  and  drink  and 
sing  in  taverns — a  fellow  over  whose  grave  no 
one  will  breathe  a  single  heigh-ho,  except  from 
the  cobweb-tie  of  what  is  called  good-fellow- 
ship— who  has  no  view  nor  aim  but  what  ter- 
minates in  himself — if  there  be  any  grovelling 
earthborn  wretch  of  our  species,  a  renegado  to 
common  sense,  who  would  fain  believe  that  the 
noble  creature  man,  is  no  better  than  a  sort  of 
fungus,  generated  out  of  nothing,  nobody  knows 
how,  and  soon  dissipated  in  nothing,  nobody 
knows  where  ;  such  a  stupid  beast,  such  a  crawl 
ing  reptile,  might  balance  the  foregoing  unex- 
aggerated  comparison,  but  no  one  else  would 
have  the  patience. 

Forgive  me,  my  dear  Sir,  for  this  long  silence. 
To  make  you  amends,  I  shall  send  you  soon,  and 
more  encouraging  still,  without  any  postage, 
one  or  two  rhymes  of  my  later  manufacture. 

R.  B. 


CLXVI. 

TO   MR.    M'MURDO. 

[John  M'Murdo  has  been  already  mentioned  as  one  of 
Burns's  firmest  friends:  his  table  at  Drumlanrig  waji 
always  spread  at  the  poet's  coming :  nor  was  it  uncheered 
by  the  presence  of  the  lady  of  the  house  and  her  daugh 
ters.] 

EUisland,  19M  June,  1789. 
Sir, 
A  POET  and  a  beggar  are,  in  so  many  points 
of  view,  alike,  that  one  might  take  tnem  for  the 


408 


GENEliAL    COKKESPONDENCE 


name  individual  character  under  different  de- 
signations ;  were  it  not  that  though,  with  a 
trifling  poetic  license,  most  poets  may  be  styled 
beggars,  yet  the  converse  of  the  proposition 
does  not  hold,  that  every  beggar  is  a  poet.  In 
one  particular,  however,  they  remarkably  agree; 
if  you  help  either  the  one  or  the  other  to  a  mug 
of  ale,  or  the  picking  of  a  bone,  they  will  very 
willingly  repay  you  with  a  song.  This  occurs 
to  me  at  present,  as  I  have  just  despatched  a 
well-lined  rib  of  John  Kirkpatrick's  Highlander ; 
a  bargain  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  you,  in 
the  style  of  our  ballad  printers,  "Five  excel- 
lent new  songs."  The  enclosed  is  nearly  my 
newest  song,  and  one  that  has  cost  me  some 
pains,  though  that  is  but  an  equivocal  mark  of 
its  excellence.  Two  or  three  others,  which  I 
have  by  me.  shall  do  themselves  the  honour  to 
wait  on  your  after  leisure:  petitioners  for  ad- 
mittance into  favour  must  not  harass  the  con- 
descension of  their  benefactor. 

You  see.  Sir,  what  it  is  to  patronize  a  poet. 
'Tis  like  being  a  magistrate  in  a  petty  borough  ; 
you  do  them  the  favour  to  preside  in  their  coun- 
cil for  one  year,  and  your  name  bears  the  pre- 
fatory stigma  of  Bailie  for  life. 

"With,  not  the  compliments,  but  the  best 
wishes,  the  sincerest  prayers  of  the  season  for 
you,  that  you  may  see  many  and  happy  years 
with  Mrs.  M'Murdo,  and  your  family ;  two 
blessings  by  the  bye,  to  which  your  rank  does 
not,  by  any  means,  entitle  you ;  a  loving  wife 
and  fine  family  being  almost  the  only  good 
things  of  this  life  to  which  the  farm-house  and 
cottage  have  an  exclusive  right, 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
Sir, 
Yotir  much  indebted  and  very  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


CLXVII. 

TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[The  devil,  the  pope,  and  the  Pretender  darkened  the 
fcermjns,  for  more  than  a  century,  of  mriny  sound  divines 
in  the  north.  As  a  Jacobite,  Burns  disliked  to  hear 
Prince  Charles  called  the  Pretender,  and  as  a  man  of  a 
tolerant  nature,  he  disliked  to  hear  the  Pope  treated  un- 
Jike  a  gentleman:  his  notions  regarding  Satan  are  re- 
corded in  his  inimitable  address.] 

Ellisland,  2\st  June,  1789. 
Dear  Madam, 
Will  you  take  the  effusions,  the  miserable 
effusions  of  low  sjlrits,  just  as  they  flow  from 


their  bitter  spring  ?  I  know  not  of  any  parti- 
cular cause  for  this  worst  of  all  my  foes  beset- 
ting me ;  but  for  some  time  my  soul  has  been 
beclouded  with  a  thickening  atmosphere  of  evil 
imaginations  and  gloomy  presages. 

Monday  Evening. 

I  have  just  heard  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  preach  a 
sermon.  He  is  a  man  famous  for  his  benevo- 
lence, and  I  revere  him ;  but  from  such  ideaa 
of  my  Creator,  good  Lord  deliver  me !  Religion, 
my  honoured  friend,  is  surely  a  simple  business, 
as  it  equally  concerns  the  ignorant  and  the 
learned,  the  poor  and  the  rich.  That  there  is 
an  incomprehensible  Great  Being,  to  whcm  I 
owe  my  existence,  and  that  he  must  be  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  operations  and  pro- 
gress of  the  internal  machinery,  and  consequent 
outward  deportment  of  this  creature  which  he 
has  made ;  these  are,  I  think,  self-evident  pro- 
positions. That  there  is  a  real  and  eternal  dis- 
tinction between  virtue  and  vice,  and  conse- 
quently, that  I  am  an  accountable  creature ; 
that  from  the  seeming  nature  of  the  human 
mind,  as  well  as  from  the  evident  imperfection, 
nay,  positive  injustice,  in  the  administration  of 
affairs,  both  in  the  natural  and  moral  worlds, 
there  must  be  a  retributive  scene  of  existence 
beyond  the  grave;  must,  I  think,  be  allowed 
by  every  one  who  will  give  himself  a  moment's 
reflection.  I  will  go  farther,  and  afi6rm  that 
from  the  sublimity,  excellence,  and  purity  of  hia 
doctrine  and  precepts,  unparalleled  by  all  the 
aggregated  wisdom  and  learning  of  many  pre- 
ceding ages,  though,  to  appearance,  he  himself 
was  the  obscurest  and  most  illiterate  of  our 
species ;  therefore  Jesus  Christ  was  from  God. 

Whatever  mitigates  the  woes,  or  increases 
the  happiness  of  others,  this  is  my  criterion  of 
goodness ;  and  whatever  injures  society  at  large, 
or  any  individual  in  it,  this  is  my  measure  of 
iniquity. 

What  think  you,  madam,  of  my  creed?  I 
trust  that  I  have  said  nothing  that  will  lessen 
me  in  the  eye  of  one,  whose  good  opinion  I  value 
almost  next  to  the  approbation  of  my  own  mind. 

R.  B. 


CLXVIII. 
TO   MR.  — 


[The  name  of  the  person  to  whom  the  following  lettet 
is  addressed  is  unknown:  he  seems,  from  his  letter  to 
Burns   to  have  been  intimate  with  the  unfortunate  poet, 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


409 


Robert  Fergusson,  who,  in  richness  of  conversation  and 
plenitude  of  fancy,  reminded  him,  he  said,  of  Robert 
Burns.] 

1789. 
My  dk^r  Sir, 

The  b  rry  of  a  farmer  in  this  particular  sea- 
son a/id  ^e  indolence  of  a  poet  at  all  times  and 
seasons,  will,  I  hope,  plead  my  excuse  for  ne- 
glecting so  long  to  answer  your  obliging  letter 
of  the  5th  of  August. 

That  you  have  done  well  in  quitting  your  la- 
borious concern  in  *  *  *  *,  I  do  not  doubt ;  the 
weighty  reasons  you  mention,  were,  I  hope,  very, 
and  deservedly  indeed,  weighty  ones,  and  your 
health  is  a  matter  of  the  last  importance ;  but 
whether  the  remaining  proprietors  of  the  paper 
have  also  done  well,  is  what  I  much  doiibt. 
The  *  *  *  *,  so  far  as  I  was  a  reader,  exhibited 
such  a  brilliancy  of  point,  such  an  elegance  of 
paragraph,  and  such  a  variety  of  intelligence, 
that  I  can  hardly  conceive  it  possible  to  con- 
tinue a  daily  paper  in  the  same  degree  of  excel- 
lence :  but  if  there  was  a  man  who  had  abilities 
equal  to  the  task,  that  man's  assistance  the 
proprietors  have  lost.  • 

When  I  received  your  letter  T  was  transcrib- 
./ig  for  *  *  *  *,  my  letter  to  the  magistrates  of 
the  Canongate,  Edinburgh,  begging  their  per- 
mission to  place  a  tombstone  over  poor  Fergus- 
son,  and  their  edict  in  consequence  of  my  peti- 
tion, but  now  I  shall  send  them  to  *****  *. 
Poor  Fergusson !  If  there  be  a  life  beyond  the 
grave,  which  I  trust  there  is ;  and  if  there  be  a 
good  God  presiding  over  all  nature,  which  I  am 
sure  there  is  ;  thou  art  now  enjoying  existence 
in  a  glorious  world,  where  worth  of  the  heart 
alone  is  distinction  in  the  man ;  where  riches, 
deprived  of  all  their  pleasure-purchasing  powers, 
return  to  their  native  sordid  matter;  where 
titles  and  honours  are  the  disregarded  reveries  of 
an  id'  ^  dream ;  and  where  that  heavy  virtue, 
which  s  the  negative  consequence  of  steady 
Jrilnoss,  and  those  thoughtless,  though  often 
destructive  follies  which  are  the  unavoidable 
aberrations  of  frail  human  nature,  will  be 
thi  own  into  equal  oblivion  as  if  they  had  never 
been  ! 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir!  So  soon  as  your  present 
views  and  schemes  are  concentered  in  an  aim, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  ;  as  your  wel- 
fare and  happiness  is  by  no  means  a  subject  in- 
ttiffercnt  to 

Tours, 

R.B. 


CLXIX. 

TO   MISS   WILLIAMS. 

[Helen  Maria  AVilliams  acknowledged  this  letter,  with 
the  critical  pencilling,  on  her  poem  on  the  Slave  Trade, 
which  it  enclosed  :  she  agreed,  she  said,  with  all  his 
objections,  save  one, but  considered  his  praise  too  high.] 

Ellisland,  1789. 
Madam, 

Of  the  many  problems  in  the  nature  of  that 
wonderful  creature,  man,  this  is  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary,  that  he  shall  go  on  from  day  to 
day,  from  week  to  week,  from  month  to  month, 
or  perhaps  from  year  to  year,  sufiFering  a  hun- 
dred times  more  in  an  hour  from  the  impotent 
consciousness  of  neglecting  what  he  ought  to  do, 
than  the  very  doing  of  it  would  cost  him.  I  am 
deeply  indebted  to  you,  first  for  a  most  elegant 
poetic  compliment ;  then  for  a  polite,  obliging 
letter ;  and,  lastly,  for  your  excellent  poem  on 
the  Slave  Trade ;  and  yet,  wretch  that  I  am ! 
though  the  debts  were  debts  of  honour,  and  the 
creditor  a  lady,  I  have  put  off  and  put  off  even 
the  very  acknowledgment  of  the  obligation,  un- 
til you  must  indeed  be  the  very  angel  I  take  you 
for,  if  you  can  forgive  me. 

Your  poem  I  have  read  with  the  highest  plea- 
sure. I  have  a  way  whenever  I  read  a  book,  I 
mean  a  book  in  our  own  trade.  Madam,  a  poetic 
one,  and  when  it  is  my  own  property,  that  I  take 
a  pencil  and  mark  at  the  ends  of  verses,  or  note 
on  margins  and  odd  paper,  little  criticisms  of 
approbation  or  disapprob^iticn  as  I  ^.eruse  along. 
I  will  make  no  apology  for  presenting  you  with 
a  few  unconnected  thoughts  that  occurred  to  me 
in  my  repeated  perusals  of  your  poem.  I  want 
to  show  you  that  I  have  honesty  enough  to  tell 
you  what  I  take  to  be  truths,  even  when  they 
are  not  quite  on  the  side  of  approbation ;  and 
I  do  it  in  the  firm  faith  that  you  have  equal 
greatness  of  mind  to  hear  them  with  pleasure. 

I  had  lately  the  honour  of  a  letter  from  Dr. 
Moore,  where  he  tells  me  that  he  has  sent  me 
some  books :  they  are  not  yet  come  to  hand,  but 
I  hear  they  are  on  the  way. 

Wishing  you  all  success  in  your  progress  in 
the  path  of  fame ;  and  that  you  may  equally 
escape  the  danger  of  stumbling  through  incau- 
tious speed,  or  losing  ground  through  loitering 
neglect  R.  B 


410 


GENERAL    CORBESPONDEIS  CE 


CLXX. 

TO   MR.   JOHN  LOGAN. 

[The  Kirk's  Alarm,  to  which  this  letter  alludes,  has 
little  of  the  spirit  of  malice  and  drollery,  so  rife  in  his 
earlier  controversial  compositions.] 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  7th  Aug.  1789. 
Dear  Sir, 
I  INTENDED  to  havc  -Written  you  long  ere  now, 
and  as  I  told  you,  I  had  gotten  three  stanzas  and 
a  half  on  my  way  in  a  poeti  j  epistle  to  you ;  but 
that  old  enemy  of  all  ^oocf  works,  the  devil,  threw 
me  into  a  prosaic  mire,  and  for  the  soul  of  me  I 
cannot  get  out  of  it  I  dare  not  write  you  a 
long  letter,  as  I  am  going  to  intrude  on  your 
time  with  a  long  ballad.  I  have,  as  you  will 
shortly  see,  finished  "The  Kirk's  Alarm;"  but 
now  that  it  is  done,  and  that  I  have  laughed 
once  or  twice  at  the  conceits  in  some  of  the 
stanzas,  I  am  determined  not  to  let  it  get  into 
the  public ;  so  I  send  you  this  copy,  the  first 
that  I  have  sent  to  Ayrshire,  except  some  few 
of  the  stanzas,  which  I  wrote  off  in  embryo  for 
Gavin  Hamilton,  under  the  express  provision 
and  request  that  you  will  only  read  it  to  a  few 
of  us,  and  do  not  on  any  account  give,  or  permit 
to  be  taken,  any  copy  of  the  ballad.  If  I  could 
be  of  any  service  to  Dr.  M'Gill,  I  would  do  it, 
though  it  should  be  at  a  much  greater  expense 
than  irritating  a  few  bigoted  priests,  but  I  am 
afraid  serving  him  in  his  present  embarras  is  a 
task  too  hard  for  me.  I  have  enemies  enow, 
God  knows,  though  I  do  not  wantonly  add  to  the 
number.  Still  as  I  think  there  is  some  merit  in 
two  or  three  of  the  thoughts,  I  send  it  to  you  as 
a  small,  but  sincere  testimony  how  much,  and 
with  what  respectful  esteem, 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  obliged  humble  servant, 
R.  B. 


CLXXI. 

TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[The  poetic  epistle  of  worthy  Janet  Little  was  of  small 
account :  nor  was  the  advice  of  Or.  Moore,  to  abandon 
the  Scottish  stanza  and  dialect,  and  adopt  the  measure 
and  langunge  of  modern  English  poetry,  better  inspired 
than  the  strains  of  the  milkmaidj  for  such  \vas  Jenny 
Little.] 

Ellisland,  Qth  Sept.,  1789. 
Dear  Madam, 
I  have  mentioned  in  my  last  my  appointment 
to  the  Excise,  and  the  birth  of  little  Frank; 
who,  by  the  bye,  I  trust  vill  be  no  discredit  to 


the  honourable  name  of  Wallace,  as  be  has  a 
fine  manly  countenance,  and  a  figure  tha^  migh* 
do  credit  to  a  little  fellow  two  months  older ; 
and  likewise  an  excellent  good  temper,  though 
when  he  pleases  he  has  a  pipe,  only  net  quite 
so  loud  as  the  horn  that  his  immortal  namesake 
blew  as  a  signal  to  take  out  the  pin  of  Stirliog 
bridge. 

I  had  some  time  ago  an  epistle,  part  poetic, 
and  part  prosaic,  from  your  poetess,  Mrs.  J. 
Little,  a  very  ingenious,  but  mo4est  composition. 
I  should  have  written  her  as  she  requested,  but 
for  the  hurry  of  this  new  business.  I  have  heard 
of  her  and  her  compositions  in  this  country  ; 
and  I  am  happy  to  add,  always  to  the  honour  of 
her  character.  The  fact  is,  I  know  not  well  how 
to  write  to  her :  I  should  sit  down  to  a  sheet  of 
paper  that  I  knew  not  how  to  stain.  I  am  no 
dab  at  fine-drawn  letter-writing;  and,  except 
when  prompted  by  friendship  or  gratitude,  or, 
which  happens  extremely  rarely,  inspired  by  the 
muse  (I  know  not  her  name)  that  presides  over 
epistolary  writing,  I  sit  down,  when  necessitated 
to  write,  as  I  would  sit  down,  to  beat  hemp. 

Some  parts  of  your  letter  of  the  20th  August, 
struck  me  with  the  most  melancholy  concern 
for  the  state  of  your  mind  at  present. 

Would  I  could  write  you  a  letter  of  comfort, 
I  would  sit  down  to  it  with  as  much  pleasure, 
as  I  would  to  write  an  epic  poem  of  my  own 
composition  that  should  equal  the  Iliad.  Reli- 
gion, my  dear  friend,  is  the  true  comfort !  A 
strong  persuasion  in  a  future  state  of  existence ; 
a  proposition  so  obviously  probable,  that,  set- 
ting revelation  aside,  every  nation  and  people, 
so  far  as  investigation  has  reached,  for  at  least 
near  four  thousand  years,  have,  in  some  mode 
or  other,  firmly  believed  it.  In  vain  would  we 
reason  and  pretend  to  doubt.  I  have  myself 
done  so  to  a  very  daring  pitch ;  but,  when  I  re- 
flected, that  I  was  opposing  the  most  ardent 
wishes,  and  the  most  darling  hopes  of  good  men, 
and  flying  in  the  face  of  all  human  belief,  in 
all  ages,  I  was  shocked  at  my  own  conlict. 

I  know  not  whether  I  have  ever  sent  you  the 
following  lines,  or  if  you  have  ever  seen  them ; 
but  it  is  one  of  my  favourite  quotations,  which 
I  keep  constantly  by  me  in  my  progress  through 
life,  in  the  language  of  the  book  of  Job, 

"  Against  the  day  of  battle  and  of  war" — 
spoken  of  religion : 

«  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning  bright, 
'Tis  this,  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night. 


OF  KOBERT   BURNS. 


411 


When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends  are  few, 

When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes  pursue  ; 

Tid  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the  smart, 

Disurnis  affliction,  or  repels  his  dart ; 

Witliin  the  breast  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 

Bids  smiling  conscience  spread  her  cloudless  skies." 

I  have  been  busy  with  Zeluco.  The  Doctor  is 
BO  obliging  as  to  request  my  opinion  of  it ;  and 
I  have  been  revolving  in  my  mind  some  kind  of. 
criticisms  on  novel-writing,  but  it  is  a  depth  be- 
yond my  research.  I  shall  however  digest  my 
thoughts  on  the  subject  as  well  as  I  can.  Zeluco 
is  a  most  sterling  performance. 

Farewell !  A  Dieu,  le  hon  Dim,  je  vous  com- 
mende.  R.  B. 


CLXXII. 
TO   CAPTAIN  RIDDEL, 

CABSE. 

[The  "Whistle  alluded  to  in  this  letter  was  contended  for 
tin  the  16th  of  October,  1790 — the  successful  competitor, 
Fergusson,  of  Craigdarroch,  was  killed  bj'  a  fall  from  his 
horse,  some  time  after  the  *'  jovial  contest."] 


Sir, 


Ellisland,  16M  Oct.,  1789. 


BiQ  with  the  idea  of  this  important  day  at 
Friars-Carse,  I  have  watched  the  elements  and 
skies  in  the  full  persuasion  that  they  would  an- 
nounce it  to  the  astonished  world  by  some  phe- 
nomena of  terrific  portent. — Yesternight  until  a 
very  late  hour  did  I  wait  with  anxious  horror, 
for  the  appearance  of  some  comet  firing  half  the 
sky  ;  or  aerial  armies  of  sanguinary  Scandina- 
vians, darting  athwart  the  startled  heavens, 
rapid  as  the  ragged  lightning,  and  horrid  as 
those  convulsions  of  nature  that  bury  nations. 

The  elements,  however,  seem  to  take  the  mat- 
ter very  quietly :  they  did  not  even  usher  in  this 
morning  with  triple  suns  and  a  shower  of  blood, 
symbolical  of  the  three  potent  heroes,  and  the 
mighty  claret-shed  of  the  day. — For  me,  as 
Thomson  in  his  Winter  says  of  the  storm — I 
shall  "  Hear  astonished,  and  astonished  sing" 

The  whistle  and  the   man  ;  I  sing 
The  man  that  won  the  whistle,  &c. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 
Three  merry  boys  I  trow  are  we ; 

And  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been, 
And  mony  mac  we  hope  to  be. 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 
A  cuckold  coward  louix  is  he : 


Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa', 
He  is  the  king  amang  us  three. 

To  leave  the  heights  of  Parnassus  and  come  t« 
the  humb}^  vale  of  prose. — 1  have  some  misgiv- 
ings that  I  take  too  much  upon  me,  when  1  re- 
quest you  to  get  your  guest,  Sir  Robert  Lowrie, 
to  frank  the  two  enclosed  covers  for  me,  the 
one  of  them  to  Sir  William  Cunningham,  of 
Robertland,  Bart,  at  Kilmarnock, — the  other  to 
Mr.  Allan  Masterton,  Writing-Master,  Edin- 
burgh. The  first  has  a  kindred  claim  on  Sir 
Robert,  as  being  a  brother  Baronet,  and  likewise 
a  keen  Foxite ;  the  other  is  one  of  the  worthiest 
men  in  the  worl'^^  u-nd  a  man  of  real  genius  ;  so, 
allow  me  to  say,  he  has  a  fraternal  claim  on  you. 
I  want  them  franked  for  to-morrow,  as  I  cannot 
get  them  to  the  post  to-night. — 1  shall  send  a 
servant  again  for  them  in  the  evening.  Wishing 
that  your  head  may  be  crowned  with  laurels  to 
night,  and  free  from  aches  to-morrow, 
I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir, 
Your  deeply  indebted  humble  Servant, 

R.  B 


CLXXIII. 


TO   CAPTAIN  RIDDEL. 

[Robert  Riddel  kept  one  of  those  present  pests  of 
society — an  album — into  which  Burns  copied  the  Line* 
on  the  Hermitage,  and  the  Wounded  Hare.] 

EUisland,  1789. 
Sib, 
I  WISH  from  my  inmost  soul  it  were  in  my 
power  to  give  you  a  more  substantial  gratifica- 
tion and  return  for  all  the  ^  jodness  to  the  poet, 
than  transcribing  a  few  of  his  idle  rhymes. — 
However,  "  an  old  song,"  though  to  a  proverb 
an  instance  of  insignificance,  is  generally  the 
only  coin  a  poet  has  to  pay  with. 

If  my  poems  which  1  have  transcribed,  and 
mean  still  to  transcribe  into  your  book,  were 
equal  to  the  grateful  respect  and  high  esteem  I 
bear  for  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  present  them, 
they  would  be  the  finest  poems  in  the  language. 
— As  they  are,  they  will  at  least  be  a  testimony 
with  what  sincerity  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
Sir, 
Your  devoted  humble  Servant, 

R.  B. 


412 


GEJSERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


OLXXIV. 

TO   MR.   ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

[The  ignominy  of  a  poet  beconming  a  gauger  seems  ever 
to  linve  been  present  to  tiie  mind  of  Burns— ';ut  those 
moving  things  ca'd  wives  and  weans  have  a  strong  in- 
fluence on  the  actions  of  man.] 

Ellisland,  1st  Nov.  1789. 
My  deae  Feiend, 

I  HAD  written  you  long  ere  now,  could  I  have 
gvjes<<cd  where  to  find  you,  for  I  am  sure  you 
have  more  good  sense  than  to  waste  the  precious 
days  of  vacation  time  in  the  dirt  of  business 
and  Edinburgh. — Wherever  you  are,  God  bless 
you,  and  lead  you  not  into  f^mntation,  but  de- 
liver you  from  evil ! 

I  do  not  know  if  I  have  informed  you  that  T 
am  now  appointed  to  an  excise  division,  in  the 
middle  of  which  my  house  and  farm  lie.  In 
this  I  was  extremely  lucky.  Without  ever  hav- 
ing been  an  expectant,  as  they  call  their  jour- 
neymen excisemen,  I  was  directly  planted  down 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  an  ofl&cer  of  excise ; 
there  to  flourish  and  bring  forth  fruits — worthy 
of  repentance. 

I  know  not  how  the  word  exciseman,  or  still 
more  opprobrious,  gauger,  will  sound  in  your 
ears.  I  too  have  seen  the  day  when  my  auditory 
nerves  would  have  felt  very  delicately  on  this 
subject;  but  a  wife  and  children  are  things 
which  have  a  wonderful  power  in  blunting  these 
kind  of  sensations.  Fifty  pounds  a  year  for 
life,  and  a  provision  for  widows  and  orphans, 
you  will  allow  is  no  bad  settlement  for  a  poet. 
For  the  ignominy  of  the  profession,  I  have  the 
encouragement  which  I  once  heard  a  recruiting 
sergeant  give  to  a  numerous,  if  not  a  respect- 
able audience,  in  the  streets  of  Kilmarnock. — 
'*  Gentlemen,  for  your  further  and  better  en- 
couragement, I  can  assure  you  that  our  regi- 
ment is  the  most  blackguard  corps  under  the 
crown,  and  consequently  with  us  an  honest  fel- 
low has  the  surest  chance  for  preferment." 

You  need  not  doubt  that  I  find  several  very 
unpleasant  and  disagreeable  circumstances  in 
Wy  business  ;  but  I  am  tired  with  and  disgusted 
at  the  language  of  complaint  against  the  evils 
of  life.  Human  existence  in  the  most  favourable 
eituations  does  not  abound  with  pleasures,  and 
has  its  inconveniences  and  ills ;  capricious  fool- 
ish man  mistakes  these  inconveniences  and 
ills  as  if  they  were  the  peculiar  properly  of  his 
particular  situation;  and  hence  that  eternal 
fickleness,  that  love  of  change,  which  has  ruined, 


and  daily  does  ruin  many  a  fine  fellow,  as  well 
as  many  a  blockhead,  and  is  almost,  without 
exception,  a  constant  source  of  disappointment 
and  misery. 

I  long  to  hear  from  you  how  you  go  on— not 
so  much  in  business  as  in  life.  Are  you  pretty 
well  satisfied  with  your  own  exertions,  and  to- 
lerably at  ease  in  your  internal  reflections? 
'Tis  much  to  be  a  great  character  as  a  lawyer, 
but  beyond  comparison  more  to  be  a  great 
character  as  a  man.  That  you  may  be  both  the 
one  and  the  other  is  the  earnest  wish,  and  that 
you  will  be  both  is  the  firm  persuasion  of. 
My  dear  Sir,  &c. 

R.  B. 


CLXXV. 

TO   MR.  RICHARD  BROWN. 

[With  this  letter  closes  the  correspondeuce  of  Robert 
Burns  and  Richard  Brown.] 

Ellisland,  4:th  November,  1789. 
I  HAVE  been  so  hurried,  my  ever  dear  friend, 
that  though  I  got  both  your  letters,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  command  an  hour  to  answer  them 
as  I  wished ;  and  eveti  now,  you  are  to  look  on 
this  as  merely  confessing  debt,  and  craving  days. 
Few  things  could  have  given  me  so  much  plea- 
sure as  the  news  that  you  were  once  more  safe 
and  Sound  on  terra  firma,  and  happy  in  that 
place  where  happiness  is  alone  to  be  found,  in 
the  fireside  circle.  May  the  benevolent  Direc- 
tor of  all  things  peculiarly  bless  you  in  all  those 
endearing  connexions  consequent  on  the  tender 
and  venerable  names  of  husband  and  father !  I 
have  indeed  been  extremely  lucky  in  getting  an 
additional  income  of  £50  a  year,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  the  appointment  will  not  cost  me 
above  £10  or  £12  per  annum  of  expenses  more 
than  I  must  have  inevitably  incurred.  The 
worst  circumstance  is,  that  the  excise  division 
which  I  have  got  is  so  extensive,  no  less  than 
ten  parishes  to  ride  over;  and  it  abounds  be- 
sides with  so  much  business,  that  I  can  scarcely 
steal  a  spare  moment.  However,  labour  endears 
rest,  and  both  together  are  absolutely  neces- 
sary for  the  proper  enjoyment  of  human  exis- 
tence. I  cannot  meet  you  anywhere.  No  less 
than  an  order  from  the  Board  of  Excise,  at 
Edinburgh,  is  necessary  before  I  can  have  so 
much  time  as  to  meet  you  in  Ayrshire.  But  do 
you  come,  and  see  me.     We  must  have  a  social 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


413 


day,  and  perhaps  lengthen  it  out  with  half  the 
night,  before  you  go  again  to  sea.  You  are  the 
earliest  friend  I  now  have  on  earth,  my  brothers 
excepted ;  and  is  not  that  an  endearing  circum- 
stance ?  When  you  and  I  first  met,  we  were  at 
the  green  period  of  human  life.  The  twig  would 
easily  take  a  bent,  but  would  as  easily  return 
to  its  former  state.  You  and  I  not  only  took  a 
mutual  bent,  but  by  the  melancholy,  though 
strong  influence  of  being  both  of  the  family  of 
the  unfortunate,  we  were  entwined  with  one 
another  in  our  growth  towards  advanced  age  ; 
and  blasted  be  the  sacrilegious  hand  that  shall 
attempt  to  undo  the  union !  You  and  I  must 
have  one  bumper  to  my  favourite  toast,  "  May 
the  companions  of  our  youth  be  the  friends  of 
our  old  age!"  Come  and  see  me  one  year;  I 
shall  see  you  at  Port  Glasgow  the  next,  and  if 
we  can  contrive  to  have  a  gossiping  between 
our  two  bed-fellows,  it  will  be  so  much  addi- 
tional pleasure.  Mrs.  Burns  joins  me  in  kind 
compliments  to  you  and  Mrs.  Brown.  Adieu ! 
I  am  ever,  my  dear  Sir,  yours, 

R.  B. 


CLXXVT. 


TO   R.  GRAHAM,   ESQ. 

[The  poet  enclosed  in  this  letter  to  his  patron  in  the 
Excise  the  clever  verses  on  Captain  Grose,  the  Kirk's 
Alarm,  and  the  first  ballad  on  Captain  Miller's  election.] 


Sir, 


9th  December,  1789. 


I  HAVE  a  good  while  had  a  wish  to  trouble 
you  with  a  letter,  and  had  certainly  done  it  long 
ere  now — but  for  a  humiliating  something  that 
throws  cold  water  on  the  resolution,  as  if  one 
should  say,  "Yoa  have  found  Mr.  Graham  a 
rery  powerful  and  kind  friend  indeed,  and  that 
interest  he  is  so  kindly  taking  in  your  concerns, 
you  ought  by  everything  in  your  power  to  keep 
alive  and  cherish."  Now  though  since  God  has 
thought  proper  to  make  one  powerful  and  an- 
other helpless,  the  connexion  of  obliger  and 
obliged  is  all  fair ;  and  though  my  being  under 
your  patronage  is  to  me  highly  honourable,  yet. 
Sir,  allow  me  to  flatter  myself,  that,  as  a  poet 
and  an  honest  man  you  first  interested  yourself 
in  my  welfare,  and  principally  as  such,  still  you 
permit  me  to  approach  you. 

I  have  found  the  excise  business  go  on  a  great 
deal  smoother  with  me  tban  I  expected;  owing 


a  good  deal  to  the  generous  friendship  of  Mr 
Mitchel,  my  collector,  and  the  kind  assistance 
of  Mr.  Findlater,  my  supervisor.  I  dare  to  be 
honest,  and  I  fear  no  labour.  Nor  do  I  find  my 
hurried  life  greatly  inimical  to  my  correspon 
dence  with  the  muses.  Their  visits  to  me, 
indeed,  and  I  believe  to  most  of  their  acquain 
tance,  like  the  visits  of  good  angels,  are  shori 
and  far  between:  but  I  meet  them  now  and 
then  as  I  jog  through  the  hills  of  Nithsdale, 
just  as  I  used  to  do  on  the  banks  of  Ayr.  I 
take  the  liberty  to  enclose  you  a  few  bagatelles, 
all  of  them  the  productions  of  my  leisure 
thoughts  in  my  excise  rides. 

If  you  know  or  have  ever  seen  Captain  Grose, 
the  antiquarian,  you  will  enter  into  any  humour 
that  is  in  the  verses  on  him.  Perhaps  you 
have  seen  them  before,  as  I  sent  them  to  a  Lon- 
don newspaper.  Though  I  dare  say  you  have 
none  of  the  solemn-league-and-covenant  fire, 
which  shone  so  conspicuous  in  Lord  George 
Gordon,  and  the  Kilmarnock  weavers,  yet  I 
think  you  must  have  heard  of  Dr.  M'Gill,  one 
of  the  clergymen  of  Ayr,  and  his  heretical 
book.  God  help  him,  poor  man !  Though  he 
is  one  of  the  worthiest,  as  well  as  one  of  the 
ablest  of  the  whole  priesthood  of  the  Kirk  of 
Scotland,  in  every  sense  of  that  ambiguous 
term,  yet  the  poor  Doctor  and  his  numerous 
family  are  in  imminent  danger  of  being  thrown 
out  to  the  mercy  of  the  winter-whads.  The  en- 
closed ballad  on  that  business  is,  I  confess,  too 
local,  but  I  laughed  myself  at  some  conceits 
in  it,  though  I  am  convinced  in  my  conscience 
that  there  are  a  good  many  heavy  stanzas  in  it 
too. 

The  election  ballad,  as  you  will  see,  alludes 
to  the  present  canvass  in  our  string  of  boroughs. 
I  do  not  believe  there  will  be  such  a  hard-ru« 
match  in  the  whole  general  election. 

I  am  too  little  a  man  to  have  any  political  at 
tachments ;  I  am  deeply  indebted  to,  and  have  the 
warmest  veneration  for,  individuals  of  both  par- 
ties; but  a  man  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  be 
the  father  of  his  country,  and  who  *****, 
is  a  character  that  one  cannot  speak  of  with 
patience. 

Sir  J.  J.  does  "  what  man  can  do,"  but  yet  \ 
doubt  his  fate. 


114 


GENERAL    COKRESPONDENCE 


CLXXVII. 
TO  MRS.   DUNLOP. 

J^Burns  was  often  a  prey  to  lowness  of  epirits:  at  this 
some  dull  men  have  marvelled;  but  the  dull  have  no 
misjjivings  :  tiiey  go  blindly  and  stupidly  on,  like  a  horse 
in  a  mill,  and  have  none  of  the  sorrows  or  joys  which 
goniusis  heir  to.] 

Ellisland,  Uth  December,  1789. 
Many  thanks,  dear  Madam,  for  your  sheet- 
full  of  rhymes.  Though  at  present  I  am  below 
the  veriest  prose,  yet  from  you  everything 
pleases.  I  am  groaning  under  the  miseries  of 
a  diseased  nervous  system  ;  a  system,  the  state 
of  which  is  most  conducive  to  our  happiness— or 
the  most  productive  of  our  misery.  For  now 
near  three  weeks  I  have  been  so  ill  with  a  nerv- 
ous head-ache,  that  I  have  been  obliged  for  a 
time  to  give  up  my  excise-books,  being  scarce 
able  to  lift  my  head,  much  less  to  ride  once  a 
week  over  ten  muir  parishes.  What  is  man? — 
To-day  in  the  luxuriance  of  health,  exulting  in 
the  enjoyment  of  existence  ;  in  a  few  days,  per-, 
haps  in  a  few  hours,  loaded  with  conscious  pain- 
ful being,  counting  the  tardy  pace  of  the  linger- 
ing moments  by  the  repercussions  of  anguish, 
and  refusing  or  denied  a  comforter.  Day  fol- 
lows night,  and  night  comes  after  day,  only  to 
curse  him  with  life  which  gives  him  no  plea- 
sure ;  and  yet  the  awful,  dark  termination  of 
that  life-is  something  at  which  he  recoils. 
"  Tell  us,  ye  dead  ;  will  none  of  you  in  pity 

Disclose  the  secret 

What  His  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  ? 

— -'tis  no  matter: 

A  little  time  will  make  us  learn'd  as  you  are."i 

Can  it  be  possible,  that  when  I  resign  this 
frail,  feverish  being,  I  shall  still  find  myself  in 
conscious  existence?  When  the  last  gasp  of 
agony  has  announced  that  I  am  no  more  to  those 
that  knew  me,  and  the  few  who  loved  me  ;  when 
the  cold,  stiffened,  unconscious, -ghastly  corse  is 
resigned  into  the  earth,  to  be  the  prey  of  un- 
Bightly  reptiles,  and  to  become  in  time  a  trodden 
clod,  shall  I  be  yet  warm  in  life,  seeing  and  seen, 
enjoying  and  enjoyed  ?  Ye  venerable  sages  and 
holy  flamens,  is  there  probability  in  your  conjec- 
tures, truth  in  your  stories,  of  another  world 
beyond  death ;  or  are  they  all  alike,  baseless 
visions,  and  fabricated  fables  ?  If  there  is  an- 
other life,  it  must  be  only  for  the  just,  the  bene- 
volent, the  amiable,  and  the  humane ;  what  a 
Battering  idea,  then,  is  a  world  to  come !    Would 


Blair's  Gray* 


to  God  I  as  firmly  believed  it,  as  I  ardently  wish 
it!  There  I  should  meet  an  aged  parent,  now 
at  rest  from  the  many  buflFetings  of  an  evil 
world,  against  which  he  so  long  and  so  bravely 
struggled.  There  should  I  meet  the  friend,  the 
disinterested  friend  of  my  early  life ;  the  man 
who  rejoiced  to  see  me,  because  he  loved  me 
and  could  serve  me. — Muir,  thy  weaknesses  were 
the  aberrations  of  human  nature,  but  thy  heart 
glowed  with  everything  generous,  manly  and 
noble  ;  and  if  ever  emanation  from  the  All-good 
Being  animated  a  human  form,  it  was  thine ! 
There  should  I,  with  speechless  agony  of  rap- 
ture, again  recognise  my  lost,  my  ever  dear 
Mary!  whose  bosom  was  fraught  with  truth, 
honour,  constancy,  and  love. 
"  My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  heavenly  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast?" 
Jesus  Christ,  thou  amiablest  of  characters !  I 
trust  thou  art  no  impostor,  and  that  thy  reve- 
lation of  blissful  scenes  of  existence  beyond 
death  and  the  grave,  is  not  one  of  the  many 
impositions  which  time  after  time  have  been 
palmed  on  credulous  mankind.  I  trust  that  in 
thee  "shall  all  the  families  of  the  earth  be 
blessed,"  by  being  yet  connected  together  in  a 
better  world,  where  every  tie  that  bound  heart 
to  heart,  in  this  state  of  existence,  shall  be,  far 
beyond  our  present  conceptions,  more  endearing. 
I  am  a  good  deal  inclined  to  think  with  those 
who  maintain,  that  what  are  called  nervous  af- 
fections are  in  fact  diseases  of  the  mind.  I  can- 
not reason,  I  cannot  think ;  and  but  to  you  I 
would  not  venture  to  write  anything  above  an 
order  to  a  cobbler.  You  have  felt  too  much  of 
the  ills  of  life  not  to  sympathise  with  a  diseased 
wretch,  who  has  impaired  more  than  half  of  any 
faculties  he  possessed.  Your  goodness  will 
excuse  this  distracted  scrawl,  which  the  writer 
dare  scarcely  read,  and  which  he  would  thr  jw 
into  the  fire,  were  he  able  to  write  anything 
better,  or  indeed  anything  at  all. 

Rumour  told  me  son^ething  of  a  son  of  yours, 
who  was  returned  from  the  East  or  West  Indies. 
If  you  have  gotten  news  from  James  or  An- 
thony, it  was  cruel  in  you  not  to  let  me  know ; 
as  I  promise  you  on  the  sincerity  of  a  man,  who 
is  weary  of  one  world,  and  anxious  about  an- 
other, that  scarce  anything  could  give  me  so 
much  pleasure  as  to  hear  of  any  good  thing  be- 
falling my  honoured  friend. 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


41T> 


If  you  hare  a  minute's  leisure,  take  up  your 
pen  iu  pity  to  le  pauvre  miserable. 


R.  B. 


OLXXVIII. 


TO  LADY  W[INIFRED]   M[AXWELL] 
CONSTABLE. 

[The  Lady  Winifred  Maxwell,  the  last  of  the  old  line 
of  Nilhsdale,  was  granddaughter  of  that  Eari  who,  in 
1715,  made  an  almost  miraculous  escape  from  death, 
through  the  spiritand  fortitude  of  his  countess,  a  lady  of 
the  noble  family  of  Powis.] 

Ellisland,  I6th  December,  1789. 
My  Lady, 

In  vain  have  I  from  day  to  day  expected  to 
hear  from  Mrs.  Young,  as  she  promised  me  at 
Dalswinton  that  she  would  do  me  the  honour  to 
introduce  me  at  Tinwald ;  and  it  was  impossible, 
not  from  your  ladyship's  accessibility,  but  from 
my  own  feelings,  that  I  could  go  alone.  Lately 
indeed,  Mr.  Maxwell  of  Carruchen,  in  his  usual 
goodness,  offered  to  accompany  me,  when  an 
unlucky  indisposition  on  my  part  hindered  my 
embracing  the  opportunity.  To  court  the  notice 
or  the  tables  of  the  great,  except  where  I  some- 
times have  had  a  little  matter  to  ask  of  them, 
or  more  often  the  pleasanter  task  of  witnessing 
my  gratitude  to  them,  is  what  I  never  have 
done,  and  I  trust  never  shall  do.  But  with  your 
ladyship  I  have  the  honour  to  be  connected  by 
one  of  the  strongest  and  most  endearing  ties  in 
the  whole  moral  world.  Common  suflferers,  in 
a  cause  where  even  to  be  unfortunate  is  glorious, 
the  cause  of  heroic  loyalty !  Though  my  fathers 
had  not  illustrious  honours  and  vast  properties 
to  hazard  in  the  contest,  though  they  left  their 
humble  cottages  only  to  add  so  many  units 
more  to  the  unnoted  crowd  that  followed  their 
leaders,  yet  what  they  could  they  did,  and  what 
they  had  they  lost ;  with  unshaken  firmness  and 
unconcealed  political  attachments,  they  shook 
hands  with  ruin  for  what  they  esteemed  the  cause 
of  thoir  king  and  their  country.  The  language 
ond  the  enclosed  verses  are  for  your  ladyship's 
eye  alone.  Poets  are  not  very  famous  for  their 
prudence  ;  but  as  I  can  do  nothing  for  a  cause 
which  is  now  nearly  no  more,  I  do  not  wish  to 
hurt  myself. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

My  lady. 

Your  ladyship's  obliged  and  obedient 

Humble  servant, 
B.  B. 


CLXXIX. 
TO   PROVOST   MAXWELL, 

OF    LOCHMABEN. 

[Of  Lochmaben,  the  "  Marjory  of  the  mnny  Lochs"  of 
the  election  ballads,  Maxwell  was  at  this  lime  provosti 
a  post  more  of  honour  than  of  labour.] 

Ellisland,  20ih  December,  1789. 
Dear  Provost, 

As  my  friend  Mr.  Graham  goes  for  your  good 
town  to-morrow,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation 
to  send  you  a  few  lines,  and  as  I  have  nothing 
to  say  I  have  chosen  this  sheet  of  foolscap,  and 
begun  as  you  see  at  the  top  of  the  first  page, 
because  I  have  ever  observed,  that  when  once 
people  have  fairly  set  out  they  know  not  where 
to  stop.  Now  that  my  first  sentence  is  conclud- 
ed, I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  pray  heaven  to 
help  me  on  to  another.  Shall  I  write  you  on 
Politics  or  Religion,  two  master  subjects  for 
your  sayers  of  nothing.  Of  the  first  I  dare  say 
by  this  time  you  are  nearly  surfeited  :  and  for 
the  last,  whatever  they  may  talk  of  it,  who 
make  it  a  kind  of  company  concern,  I  nevei 
could  endure  it  beyond  a  soliloquy.  I  might 
write  you  on  farming,  on  building,  or  market- 
ing, but  my  poor  distracted  mind  is  so  torn,  so 
jaded,  so  racked  and  bediveled  with  the  task  of 
the  superlative  damned  to  make  one  guinea  do 
the  business  of  three,  that  I  detest,  abhor,  and 
swoon  at  the  very  word  business,  though  no  less 
than  four  letters  of  my  very  short  sirname  are 
in  it. 

Well,  to  make  the  matter  short,  I  shall  be- 
take myself  to  a  subject  ever  fruitful  of  themes ; 
a  subject  the  turtle-feast  of  the  sons  of  Satan, 
and  the  delicious  secret  sugar-plum  of  the  babes 
of  grace — a  subject  sparkling  with  all  the  jewels 
that  wit  can  find  in  the  mines  of  genius :  and 
pregnant  with  all  the  stores  of  learning  from 
Moses  and  Confucius  to  Franklin  and  Priestley 
— in  short,  may  it  please  your  Lordship,  lintend 
to  write  *  *  * 

Iffere  the  Poet  iruerted  a  song  which  can  only  bt 
sung  at  times  tchen  the  punch-bowl  has  done  its  duty 
and  wild  wit  is  set  free.'] 

If  at  any  time  you  expect  a  field-day  in  your 
town,  a  day  when  Dukes,  Earls,  and  Knighta 
pay  their  court  to  weavers,  tailors,  and  cobblers, 
I  should  like  to  know  of  it  two  or  three  days  be- 
forehand. It  is  not  that  I  care  three  skips  of  a 
our  dog  for  the  politics,  but  I  should  like  to  see 


416 


GENERAL   CORKESPONDENCE 


Buch  an  exhibition  of  human  nature.  If  you 
meet  with  that  worthy  old  veteran  in  religion 
and  good-fellowship,  Mr.  Jeffrey,  or  any  of  his 
amiable  family,  I  beg  you  will  give  them  my  best 
compliments.  K.  B. 


CLXXX. 


TO  SIR  JOHN  SINCLAIR. 

[Of  the  Monkland  Book-Club  alluded  to  in  thie  letter, 
the  p|ergym;in  had  omitted  al.  mention  in  his  account  of 
the  Parish  of  Diinseore,  publish^^d  in  Sir  John  Sinclair's 
work :  some  of  tiie  books  which  the  poet  introduced  were 
stigmatized  us  vain  and  frivolous.] 


1790. 


Sib, 


The  following  circumstance  has,  T  believe, 
been  committed  in  the  statistical  account,  trans- 
mitted to  you  of  the  parish  of  Dunscore,  in 
Nithsdale.  I  beg  leave  to  send  it  to  you  because 
it  is  new,  and  may  be  useful.  How  far  it  is  de- 
serving of  a  place  in  your  patriotic  publication, 
you  are  the  best  judge. 

To  store  the  minds  of  the  lower  classes  with 
useful  knowledge,  is  certainly  of  very  great  im- 
portance, both  to  them  as  individuals  and  to 
society  at  large.  Giving  them  a  turn  for  rend- 
ing and  reflection,  is  giving  them  a  source  of  in- 
nocent and  laudable  amusement ;  and  besides, 
raises  thom  to  a  more  dignified  degree  in  the 
scale  of  rationality.  Impressed  with  this  idea, 
a  gentleman  in  this  parish,  Robert  Riddel,  Esq., 
of  Glenriddel,  set  on  foot  a  species  of  circulat- 
ing library,  on  a  plan  so  simple  as  to  be  practi- 
cable in  any  corner  of  the  country ;  and  so 
useful,  as  to  deserve  the  notice  of  every  country 
gentleman,  who  thinks  the  improvement  of  that 
part  of  his  own  species,  whom  chance  has 
thrown  into  the  humble  walks  of  the  peasant 
and  the  artisan,  a  matter  worthy  of  his  atten- 
tion. 

Mr.  Riddel  got  a  number  of  his  own  tenants, 
and  farming  neighbours,  to  form  themselves  into 
a  society  for  the  purpose  of  having  a  library 
among  themselves.  They  entered  into  a  legal 
engagement  to  abide  by  it  for  three  years ;  with 
a  saving  clause  or  two  in  case  of  a  removal  to  a 
distance,  or  death.  Each  member,  at  his  entry, 
paid  five  shillings ;  and  at  each  of  their  meetings, 
Which  were  held  every  fourth  Saturday,  six- 
pence more.  With  their  entry-money,  and  the 
credit  which  they  took  on  the  faith  of  their 
future  funds,  they  laid  in  a  tolerable  stock  of 


books  at  the  commencement.  What  authors 
they  were  to  purchase,  was  always  decided  by 
the  majority.  At  every  meeting,  all  the  books, 
under  certain  fines  and  forfeitures,  by  way  of 
penalty,  were  to  be  produced ;  and  the  mem- 
bers had  their  choice  of  the  volumes  in  rotation 
He  whose  name  stood  for  that  night  first  on 
the  list,  had  his  choice  of  what  volume  he 
pleased  in  the  whole  collection ;  the  second  had 
his  choice  after  the  first;  the  third  after  the 
second,  and  so  on  to  the  last.  At  next  meeting, 
he  who  had  been  first  on  the  list  at  the  preced- 
ing meeting,  was  last  at  this ;  he  who  had  been 
I  second  was  first;  and  so  on  through  the  whole 
three  years.  At  the  expiration  of  the  engage- 
ment the  books  were  sold  by  auction,  but  only 
among  the  members  themselves  ;  each  man  had 
his  share  of  the  common  stock,  in  money  or  in 
books,  as  he  chose  to  be  a  purchaser  or  not. 

At  the  breaking  up  of  this  little  society,  which 
was  formed  under  Mr.  Riddel's  patronage,  what 
with  benefactions  of  books  from  him,  and  what 
with  their  own  purchases,  they  had  collected  to- 
gether upwards  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  volumes. 
It  will  easily  be  guessed,  that  a  good  deal  of  trasli 
would  be  bought.  Among  the  books,  however, 
of  this  little  library,  were,  Blair's  Sermons,  Ro- 
bertson's History  of  Scotland,  Hume's  History  of 
the  Stewarts,  The  Spectator,  Idler,  Adventurer, 
Mirror,  Lounger,  Observer,  Man  of  Feeling,  Man 
of  the  World,  Chrysal,  Don  Quixote,  Joseph  An- 
drews, &c.  A  peasant  who  can  read,  and  enjoy 
such  books,  is  certainly  a  much  superior  being 
to  his  neighbour,  who  perhaps  stalks  beside  his 
team,  very  little  removed,  except  in  shape,  from 
the  brutes  he  drives. 

Wishing  your  patriotic  exertions  their  so  much 
merited  success, 

I  am.  Sir, 

Your  humble  servant, 

A  Peasant. 


CLXXXI. 


TO  CHARLES   SHARPE,  ESQ., 

OF    HODDAM. 

[The  family  of  Hoddara  is  of  old  standing  in  Nithsdale 
it  has  mingled  blood  with  some  of  the  noblest  Scottish 
names;  nor  is  it  unknown  either  in  history  or  iiterature 
—the  fierce  knight  of  Closeburn,  who  m  the  scuffle  be- 
tween Bruce  and  Comyne  drew  his  sword  and   maU« 


OF   ROBEllT   BUKNS. 


417 


'<  sicue-,"  nnd  my  friend  Charles  KirkpatrickSharpe,  are 
not  the  least  distinguished  of  its  members.] 

[1790.] 
It  is  true,  Sir,  you  are  a  gentleman  of  rank 
and  fortune,  and  I  am  a  poor  devil :  you  are  a 
feather  in  the  cap  of  society,  and  I  am  a  very 
hobnail  in  his  shoes ;  yet  I  have  the  honour  to 
belong  to  the  same  family  with  you,  and  on  that 
score  I  now  address  you.  You  will  perhaps 
suspect  that  I  am  going  to  claim  affinity  with 
the  ancient  and  honourable  house  of  Kirkpa- 
trick.  No,  no,  Sir :  I  cannot  indeed  be  properly 
said  to  belong  to  any  house,  or  even  any  province 
or  kingdom;  as  my  mother,  who,  for  many  years 
was  spouse  to  a  marching  regiment,  gave  me  into 
this  bad  world,  aboard  the  packet-boat,  some- 
where between  Donaghadee  and  Portpatrick. 
By  our  common  family,  I  mean,  Sir,  the  family 
jf  the  muses.  I  am  a  fiddler  and  a  poet ;  and 
you,  I  am  told,  play  an  exquisite  violin,  and  have 
a  standard  taste  in  the  Belles  Lettres.  The 
other  day,  a  brother  catgut  gave  me  a  charming 
Scots  air  of  your  composition.  If  I  was  pleased 
with  the  tune,  I  was  in  raptures  with  the  title 
you  have  given  it ;  and  taking  up  the  idea  I 
have  spun  it  into  the  three  stanzas  enclosed. 
Will  you  allow  me.  Sir,  to  present  you  them,  as 
the  dearest  offering  that  a  misbegotten  son  of 
poverty  and  rhyme  has  to  give  ?  I  have  a  long- 
ing to  take  you  by  the  hand  and  unburthen  my 
heart  by  saying,  "Sir,  I  honour  you  as  a  man 
who  supports  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  amid 
an  age  when  frivolity  and  avarice  have,  between 
them,  debased  us  below  the  brutes  that  perish  !" 
But,  alas,  Sir !  to  me  you  are  unapproachable. 
It  is  true,  the  muses  baptized  me  in  Castalian 
streams,  but  the  thoughtless  gipsies  forgot  to 
give  me  a  name.  As  the  sex  have  served 
many  a  good  fellow,  the  Nine  have  given  me  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure,  but,  bewitching  jades! 
they  have  beggared  me.  Would  they  but  spare 
me  a  little  of  their  cast-linen !  Were  it  only  in 
my  power  to  say  that  I  have  a  shirt  on  my 
back !  but  the  idle  wenches,  like  Solomon's 
lilies,  "they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin ;"  so 
I  must  e'en  continue  to  tie  my  remnant  of  a 
cravat,  like  the  hangman's  rope,  round  my 
naked  throat,  and  coax  my  galligaskins  to  keep 
together  their  many-coloured  fragments.  As 
to  the  affair  of  shoes,  I  have  given  that  up. 
My  pilgrimages  in  my  ballad-trade,  from  town 
to  town,  and  on  your  stony-hearted  turnpikes 
too,  are  what  not  even  the  hide  of  Job's  Behe- 
moth could  bear.  The  coat  on  my  back  is  no 
27 


more :  I  shall  not  speak  evil  of  the  dead.  It 
would  be  equally  unhandsome  and  ungrateful 
to  find  fault  with  my  old  surtout,  which  so 
kindly  supplies  and  conceals  the  want  of  that 
coat.  My  hat  indeed  is  a  great  favourite  ;  and 
though  I  got  it  literally  for  an  old  song,  I  would 
not  exchange  it  for  the  best  beaver  in  Britain. 
I  was,  during  several  years,  a  kind  of  fac-totum 
servant  to  a  country  clergyman,  where  I  pickt 
up  a  good  many  scraps  of  learning,  particularly 
in  some  branches  of  the  mathematics.  When- 
ever I  feel  inclined  to  rest  myself  on  my  way, 
I  take  my  seat  under  a  hedge,  laying  my  poetic 
wallet  on  the  one  side,  and  my  fiddle-case  on 
the  other,  and  placing  my  hat  between  my  legs. 
I  can,  by  means  of  its  brim,  or  rather  brims, 
go  through  the  whole  doctrine  of  the  conic 
sections. 

However,  Sir,  don't  let  me  mislead  you,  as 
if  I  would  interest  your  pity.  Fortune  has  so 
much  forsaken  me,  that  she  has  taught  me  to 
live  without  her ;  and  amid  all  my  rags  and 
poverty,  I  am  as  independent,  and  much  more 
happy,  than  a  monarch  of  the  world.  Accord- 
ing to  the  hackneyed  metaphor,  I  value  the 
several  actors  in  the  great  drama  of  life,  simply 
as  they  act  their  parts.  I  can  look  on  a  worth- 
less fellow  of  a  duke  with  unqualified  contempt, 
and  can  regard  an  honest  scavenger  with  sin- 
cere respect.  As  you,  Sir,  go  through  your 
role  with  such  distinguished  merit,  permit  m« 
to  make  one  in  the  chorus  of  universal  applause, 
and  assure  you  that  with  the  highest  respect, 
I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c., 

Johnny  Faa. 


CLXXXn. 

TO   MR.    GILBERT   BURNS. 

[In  the  few  fierce  words  of  this  letter  the  poet  tidg 
adieu  to  all  hopes  of  wealth  from  Ellisland.] 

ElUsland,  Wth  January,  1790. 
Dear  Brothtk, 
I  MEAN  to  take  advantage  of  the  frank,  though 
I  have  not,  in  my  present  frame  of  mind,  much 
appetite  for  exertion  in  writing.  My  nerves  are 
in  a  cursed  state.  I  feel  that  horrid  hypochon- 
dria pervading  every  atom  of  both  body  and 
soul.  This  farm  has  undone  my  enjoyment  of 
myself.     It  is  a  ruinous  affair  on  all  hands 


<tl8 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


But  let  it  go  to  hell !  I'll  fight  it  out  and  be  oflF 
with  it. 

We  have  gotten  a  set  of  very  decent  players 
here  just  now.  I  have  seen  them  an  evening  or 
two.  David  Campbell,  in  Ayr,  wrote  to  me  by 
the  manager  of  the  company,  a  Mr.  Sutherland, 
who  is  a  man  of  apparent  worth.  On  New- 
year-day  evening  I  gave  him  the  following  pro- 
logue, which  he  spouted  to  his  audience  with 
applause. 

No  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon  great  city, 
That  queens  it  o'er  our  taste — the  more's  the 

pity: 
Tho',  by  the  bye,  abroad  why  will  you  roam  ? 
Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at  home. 

I  can  no  more. — If  once  I  was  clear  of  this 
cursed  farm,  I  should  respire  more  at  ease. 

R.  B. 


CLXXXIII. 
TO  MR.    SUTHERLAND, 

PLAYER. 

ENCLOSING   A   PKOLOGTJE. 

[When  the  farm  failed,  the  poet  sousrht  pleasure  in  the 
playhouse:  he  tried  to  retire  from  his  own  harassing  re- 
flections, into  a  world  created  by  other  minds.] 

Monday  Morning. 
I  WAS  much  disappointed,  my  dear  Sir,  in 
-wanting  your  most  agreeable  company  yester- 
day. However,  I  heartily  pray  for  good  wea- 
ther next  Sunday ;  and  whatever  aerial  Being 
has  the  guidance  of  the  elements,  may  take  any 
other  half-dozen  of  Sundays  he  pleases,  and 
clothe  them  with 

*'  Vapours  and  clouds,  and  storms, 
Until  he  terrify  himself 
At  combustion  of  his  own  raising." 

I  shall  see  you  ou  Wednesday  forenoon.  In 
the  greatest  hurry,  R.  B. 


OLXXXIV. 


TO  WILLIAM  DUNBAR,  W.  S. 

[This  letter  was  first  published  by  the  Ettrick  Shep- 
herd, in  his  edition  of  Burns:  it  is  remarkable  for  this 
aentence,  "  I  am  resolved  never  to  breed  up  a  son  of 
mine  to  any  of  the  learned  professions  :  I  know  the  value 
of  miependence,  and  since  I  cannot  give  my  sons  an  inde- 
pendent fortune,  I  shall  give  them  an  independent  line  of 


life."    We  may  look  round  us  and  inquire  which  Jice  oi 
life  the  poet  could  possibly  mean.] 

Ellisland,  \^th  Januury,  1790. 

Since  we  are  here  creatures  of  a  day,  since 
*<  a  few  summer  days,  and  a  few  winter  nights, 
and  the  life  of  man  is  at  an  end,"  why,  my  dear 
much-esteemed  Sir,  should  you  and  I  let  negli- 
gent indolence,  for  I  know  it  is  nothing  wor^e, 
step  in  between  us  and  bar  the  enjoyment  of  a 
mutual  correspondence?  We  are  not  shapen 
out  of  the  common,  heavy,  methodical  clod,  the 
elemental  stuiF  of  the  plodding  selfish  race,  the 
sons  of  Arithmetic  and  Prudence ;  our  feelings 
and  hearts  are  not  benumbed  and  poisoned  by 
the  cursed  infiiuence  of  riches,  which,  whatever 
blessing  they  may  be  in  other  respects,  are  no 
friends  to  the  nobler  qualities  of  the  heart :  in 
the  name  of  random  sensibility,  then,  let  never 
the  moon  change  on  our  silence  any  more.  I 
have  had  a  tract  of  bad  health  most  part  of  this 
winter,  else  you  had  heard  from  me  long  ere 
now.  Thank  Heaven,  I  am  now  got  so  much 
better  as  to  be  able  to  partake  a  little  in  the  en- 
joyments of  life. 

Our  friend  Cunningham  will,  perhaps,  have 
told  you  of  my  going  into  the  Excise.  The  truth 
is,  I  found  it  a  very  convenient  business  to  have 
£50  per  annum,  nor  have  I  yet  felt  any  of  those 
mortifying  circumstances  in  it  that  I  was  led  to 

fear. 

Feb.  2. 

I  have  not,  for  sheer  hurry  of  business,  been 
able  to  spare  five  minutes  to  finish  my  letter. 
Besides  my  farm  business,  I  ride  on  my  Excise 
matters  at  least  two  hundred  miles  every  week. 
I  have  not  by  any  means  given  up  the  muses. 
You  will  see  in  the  3d  vol.  of  Johnson's  Scots 
songs  that  I  have  contributed  my  mite  there. 

But,  my  dear  Sir,  little  ones  that  look  up  to 
you  for  paternal  protection  are  an  important 
charge.  I  have  already  two  fine,  healthy,  stout 
little  fellows,  and  I  wish  to  throw  some  light 
upon  them.  I  have  a  thousand  reveries  and 
schemes  about  them,  and  their  future  destiny. 
Not  that  I  am  a  Utopian  projector  in  these 
things.  I  am  resolved  never  to  breed  up  a  son 
of  mine  to  any  of  the  learned  professions.  I 
know  the  value  of  independence ;  and  since  I 
canr.ct  give  my  sons  an  independent  fortune,  I 
shall  give  them  an  independent  line  of  life. 
What  a  chaos  of  hurry,  chance,  and  changes  is 
this  world,  when  one  sits  soberly  down  to  reflect 
on  it!  To  a  father,  who  himself  kno-ws  the 
world,  the  thought  that  he  shall  have   sons  to 


0¥   llOJiEllT   BUiiNS. 


419 


.isher  into  it  must  fill  him  with  dread  ;  but  if  he 
have  daughters,  the  prospect  in  a  thoughtful 
moment  is  apt  to  shock  him. 

I  hope  Mrs.  Fordyce  and  the  two  young  ladies 
are  well.  Do  let  me  forget  that  they  are  nieces 
of  yours,  and  let  me  say  that  I  never  saw  a  more 
interesting,  sweeter  pair  of  sisters  in  my  life. 
I  am  the  fool  of  my  feelings  and  attachments. 
I  often  take  up  a  volume  of  my  Spenser  to  realize 
you  to  my  imagination,  and  think  over  the  so- 
cial scenes  we  have  had  together,  God  grant 
that  there  may  be  another  world  more  congenial 
to  honest  fellows  beyond  this.  A  world  where 
these  rubs  and  plagues  of  absence,  distance,  mis- 
fortunes, ill-health,  &c.,  shall  no  more  damp 
hilarity  and  divide  friendship.  This  I  know  is 
your  throng  season,  but  half  a  page  will  much 
oblige, 

My  dear  Sir, 

Yours  sincerely, 

R.  B. 


CLXXXV. 

TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

(/"alconer,  the  poet,  whom  Burns  mentions  here,  per- 
shed  in  the  Aurora,  in  which  he  acted  as  purser :  he  was 
a  satirist  of  no  mean  power,  and  wrote  that  useful  work, 
the  Marine  Dictionary :  but  his  fame  depends  upon  "  The 
Shipwreck,"  one  of  the  most  original  and  mournful 
poems  in  the  language.] 

Ellisland,  25th  January,  1790. 

It  has  been  owing  to  unremitting  hurry  of 
business  that  I  have  not  written  to  you,  Madam, 
long  ere  now.  My  health  is  greatly  better, 
and  I  now  begin  once  more  to  share  in  satis- 
faction and  enjoyment  with  the  rest  of  my  fellow- 
creatures. 

Many  thanks,  my  much-esteemed  friend,  for 
your  kind  letters ;  but  why  will  you  make  me 
run  the  risk  of  being  contemptible  and  merce- 
nary in  my  own  eyes  ?  When  I  pique  myself  on 
my  independent  spirit,  I  hope  it  is  neither  poetic 
license,  nor  poetic  rant ;  and  I  am  so  flattered 
with  the  honour  you  have  done  me,  in  making 
me  your  compeer  in  friendship  and  friendly  cor- 
respondence, that  I  cannot  without  pain,  and  a 
degree  of  mortification,  be  reminded  of  the  real 
inequality  between  our  situations. 

Most  sincerely  do  I  rejoice  with  you,  dear 
Madam,  in  the  good  news  of  Anthony.      Not 


J  The  ballad  is  In  the  MinBtrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border, 
•d.  1833,  vol.iii.  p.304. 


only  your  anxiety  about  his  fate,  but  my  own 
esteem  for  such  a  noble,  warm-hearted,  manly 
young  fellow,  in  the  little  I  had  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, has  interested  me  deeply  in  hia 
fortunes. 

Falconer,  the  unfortunate  author  of  the  "Ship- 
wreck," which  you  so  much  admire,  is  no  more. 
After  witnessing  the  dreadful  catastrophe  he  so 
feelingly  describes  in  his  poem,  and  after  wea- 
thering many  hard  gales  of  fortune,  he  went  to 
the  bottom  with  the  Aurora  frigate ! 

I  forget  what  part  of  Scotland  had  the  honour 
of  giving  him  birth  ;  but  he  was  the  son  of  ob- 
scurity and  misfortune.  He  was  one  of  those 
daring  adventurous  spirits,  which  Scotland,  be- 
yond any  other  country,  is  remarkable  for  pro- 
ducing. Little  does  the  fond  mother  think,  as 
she  hangs  delighted  over  the  sweet  little  leech 
at  her  bosom,  where  the  poor  fellow  may  here- 
after wander,  and  what  may  be  his  fate.  I  re- 
member a  stanza  in  an  old  Scottish  ballad, 
which,  notwithstanding  its  rude  simplicity, 
speaks  feelingly  to  the  heart  : 

"  Little  did  my  mother  think. 

That  day  she  cradled  me, 
What  land  I  was  to  travel  in, 

Or  what  death  I  should  die  I"i 

Old  Scottish  song  are,  you  know,  a  favourite 
study  and  pursuit  of  mine,  and  now  I  am  on 
that  subject,  allow  me  to  give  you  two  stanzas 
of  another  old  simple  ballad,  which  I  am  sure 
will  please  you.  The  catastrophe  of  the  piece 
is  a  poor  ruined  female,  lamenting  her  fate. 
She  concludes  with  this  pathetic  wish : — 

"  O  that  my  father  had  ne'er  on  me  smil'd  ; 

O  that  my  mother  had  ne'er  to  me  sung  I 
O  that  my  cradle  had  never  been  rock"d  j 

But  that  I  had  died  when  I  was  young  ! 
O  that  the  grave  it  were  my  bed ; 

My  blankets  were  my  winding  sheet  j 
The  clocks  and  the  worms  my  bedfellows  a'| 

And  O  sae  sound  as  I  should  sleep  I" 

I  do  not  remember  in  all  my  reading,  to  have 
met  with  anything  more  truly  the  language  of 
misery,  than  the  exclamation  in  the  last  line. 
Misery  is  like  love  ;  to  speak  its  language  truly, 
the  author  must  have  felt  it. 

I  am  every  day  expecting  the  doctor  to  giv« 
your  little  godson 2  the  small-pox.  They  ar« 
ri/e  in  the  country,  and  I  tremble  for  his  fate. 
By  the  way,  I  cannot  help  congratulating  you 
on  bis  looks  and  spirit.    Every  person  who  seei 


The  bard's  second  son,  Francis. 


420 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


him,  acknowledges  him  to  be  the  finest,  hand- 
Bomest  child  he  has  ever  seen.  I  am  myself  de- 
lighted with  the  manly  swell  of  his  little  chest, 
and  a  certain  miniature  dignity  in  the  carriage 
of  his  head,  and  the  glance  of  his  fine  black  eye, 
which  promise  the  undaunted  gallantry  of  an 
independent  mind. 

I  thought  to  have  sent  you  some  rhymes,  but 
time  forbids.  I  promise  you  poetry  until  you 
are  tired  of  it,  next  time  I  have  {he  honour  of 
assuring  you  how  truly  I  am,  &c. 

R.  B. 


CLXXXVI. 
TO     MR.    PETER   HILL, 

BOOKSELLER,    EDINBURGH. 

[The  Mademoiselle  Burns  whom  the  poet  inquires 
about,  was  one  of  the  "  ladies  of  the  Canongate,"  who 
desired  to  introduce  free  trade  in  her  profession  into  a 
close  borough  :  this  was  refused  by  the  magistrates  of 
Edinburgh,  though  advocated  with  much  eloquence  and 
humour  in  a  letter  by  her  namesake — it  is  coloured  too 
strongly  with  her  calling  to  be  published.] 

Ellisland,  2d  Feb.,  1790. 
No !  I  will  not  say  one  word  about  apologies 
or  excuses  for  not  writing. — I  am  a  poor,  ras- 
cally ganger,  condemned  to  gallop  at  least  200 
miles  every  week  to  inspect  dirty  ponds  and 
yeasty  barrels,  and  where  can  I  find  time  to 
write  to,  or  importance  to  interest  anybody  ? 
the  upbraidings  of  my  conscience,  nay  the  up- 
braidings  of  my  wife,  have  persecuted  me  on 
your  account  these  two  or  three  months  past. — 
I  wish  to  God  I  was  a  great  man,  that  my  cor- 
respondence might  throw  light  upon  you,  to  let 
the  world  see  what  you  really  are  :  and  then  I 
would  make  your  fortune  without  putting  my 
hand  in  my  pocket  for  you,  which,  like  all  other 
great  men,  I  suppose  I  would  avoid  as  much  as 
possible.  What  are  you  doing,  and  how  are 
you  doing  ?  Have  you  lately  seen  any  of  my  few 
friends  ?  What  is  become  of  the  borough  be- 
POBM,  or  how  is  the  fate  of  my  poor  namesake, 
Mademoiselle  Burns,  decided  ?  0  man  !  but  for 
thee  and  thy  selfish  appetites,  and  dishonest 
artifices,  that  beauteous  form,  and  that  once 
innocent  and  still  ingenuous  mind,  might  have 
shone  conspicuous  and  lovely  in  the  faithful 
wife,  and  the  affectionate  mother ;  and  shall 
the  unfortunate  sacrifice  to  thy  pleasures  have 
ao  claim  on  thy  humanity  ! 


I  saw  lately  in  a  Review,  some  extracts  from 
a  new  poem,  called  the  Village  Curate  ;  send  it 
me.  I  want  likewise  a  cheap  copy  of  The 
World.  Mr.  Armstrong,  the  young  poet,  who 
does  me  the  honour  to  mention  me  so  kindly  in 
his  works,  please  give  him  my  best  thanks  for  the 
copy  of  his  book — I  shall  write  him,  my  first 
leisure  hour.  I  like  his  poetry  much,  but  I 
think  his  style  in  prose  quite  astonishing. 

Your  book  came  safe,  and  I  am  going  to 
trouble  you  with  further  comiiissions.  I  call  it 
troubling  you, — because  I  want  only,  books  ; 
the  cheapest  way,  the  best;  so  you  may  have 
to  hunt  for  them  in  the  evening  auctions.  I 
want  Smollette's  works,  for  the  sake  of  his  in- 
comparable humour.  I  have  already  Roderick 
Random,  and  Humphrey  Clinker. — Peregrine 
Fickle,  Launcelot  Greaves,  and  Ferdinand 
Count  Fathom,  I  still  want ;  but  as  1  said,  the 
veriest  ordinary  copies  will  serve  me.  I  am 
nice  only  in  the  appearance  of  my  poets.  I 
forget  the  price  of  Cowper's  Poems,  but,  I  be- 
lieve, I  must  have  them.  I  saw  the  other  day, 
proposals  for  a  publication,  entitled  "Banks's 
new  and  complete  Christian's  Family  Bible," 
printed  for  C.  Cooke,  Paternoster-row,  London. 
— He  promises  at  least,  to  give  in  the  work,  I 
think  it  is  three  hundred  and  odd  engravings,  to 
which  he  has  put  the  names  of  the  first  artists 
in  London. — You  will  know  the  character  of  the 
performance,  as  some  numbers  of  it  are  pub- 
lished; and  if  it  is  really  what  it  pretends  to 
be,  set  me  down  as  a  subscriber,  and  send  me 
the  published  numbers. 

Let  me  hear  from  you,  your  first  leisure 
minute,  and  trust  me  you  shall  in  future  have  no 
reason  to  complain  of  my  silence.  The  dazzling 
perplexity  of  novelty  will  dissipate  and  leave 
me  to  pursue  my  course  in  the  quiet  path  of 
methodical  routine.  R.  B 


CLXXXVIl. 

TO   MR.   W.   NICOL. 

[The  poet  has  recorded  this  unlooked-for  death  of  the 
Dominie's  mare  in  some  hasty  verses,  whici  are  not 
much  superior  to  the  subject.] 

Ellisland,  Feb.  9th,  1790. 
My  dear  Sib, 
That  d-mned  mare  of  yours  is  dead    I  would 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


421 


freely  have  given  her  price  to  have  saved  her ; 
Bhe  has  vexed  me  beyond  description.  Indebted 
as  I  was  to  your  goodness  beyond  vfhat  I  can 
ever  repay,  I  eagerly  grasped  at  your  offer  to 
have  the  mare  with  me.  That  I  might  at  least 
show  my  readiness  in  wishing  to  be  grateful,  I 
took  every  care  of  her  in  my  power.  She  was 
never  crossed  for  riding  above  half  a  score  of 
times  by  me  or  in  my  keeping.  I  drew  her  in 
the  plough,  one  of  three,  for  one  poor  week.  I 
refused  fifty-five  shillings  for  her,  which  was 
t,he  highest  bode  I  could  squeeze  for  her.  I  fed 
her  up  and  had  her  in  fine  order  for  Dumfries 
lair ;  when  four  or  five  days  before  the  fair, 
she  was  seized  with  an  unaccountable  disorder 
in  the  sinews,  or  somewhere  in  the  bones  of  the 
neck ;  with  a  weakness  or  total  want  of  power 
in  her  fillets,  and  in  short  the  whole  vertebrae 
of  her  spine  seemed  to  be  diseased  and  un- 
hinged, and  in  eight-and-forty  hours,  in  spite 
of  the  two  best  farriers  in  the  country,  she  died 
and  be  d-mned  to  her !  The  farriers  said  that 
she  had  been  quite  strained  in  the  fillets  be- 
yond cure  before  you  had  bought  her ;  and  that 
the  poor  devil,  though  she  might  keep  a  little 
flesh,  had  been  jaded  and  quite  worn  out  with 
fatigue  and  oppression.  While  she  was  with  me, 
she  was  under  my  own  eye,  and  I  assure  you, 
my  much  valued  friend,  everything  was  done 
for  her  that  could  be  done;  and  the  accident 
has  vexed  me  to  the  heart.  In  fact  I  could  not 
pluck  up  spirits  to  write  to  you,  on  account  of 
the  unfortunate  business. 

There  is  little  new  in  this  country.  Our  the- 
atrical company,  of  which  you  must  h^ve  heard, 
leave  us  this  week. — Their  merit  and  character 
are  indeed  very  great,  both  on  the  stage  and  in 
private  life;  not  a  worthless  creature  among 
them ;  and  their  encouragement  has  been  ac- 
cordingly. Their  usual  run  is  from  eighteen  to 
twenty-five  pounds  a  night:  seldom  less  than 
the  one,  and  the  house  will  hold  no  more  than 
the  other.  There  have  been  repeated  instances 
of  sending  away  six,  and  eight,  and  ten  pounds 
a  night  for  want  of  room.  A  new  theatre  is  to 
be  built  by  subscription  ;  the  first  stone  is  to  be 
laid  on  Friday  first  to  come.  Three  hundred 
guineas  have  been  raised  by  thirty  subscribers, 
and  thirty  more  might  have  been  got  if  wanted. 
The  manager,  Mr.  Sutherland,  was  introduced 
to  me  by  a  friend  from  Ayr ;  and  a  worthier  or 
cleverer  fellow  I  have  rarely  met  with.  Some 
tt  our  clergy  have  slipt  in  by  stealth  now  and 


then ;  but  they  have  got  up  a  farce  of  their  own. 
You  must  have  heard  how  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lawson 
of  Kirkmahoe,  seconded  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Kirk- 
patrick  of  Dunscore,  and  the  rest  of  that  fac- 
tion, have  accused  in  formal  process,  the  an- 
fortunate  and  Rev.  Mr.  Heron,  of  Kirkgunzeon» 
that  in  ordaining  Mr.  Nielson  to  the  cure  of 
souls  in  Kirkbean,  he,  the  said  Heron,  feloui* 
ously  and  treasonably  bound  the  said  Nielson  to 
the  confession  of  faith,  so  far  as  it  was  agreeable 
to  reason  and  the  word  of  God ! 

Mrs.  B.  begs  to  be  remembered  most  grate- 
fully to  you.  Little  Bobby  and  Frank  are 
charmingly  well  and  healthy.  I  am  jaded  to 
death  with  fatigue.  For  these  two  or  three 
months,  on  an  average,  I  have  not  ridden  less 
than  two  hundred  miles  per  week.  I  have  done 
little  in  the  poetic  way.  I  have  given  Mr. 
Sutherland  two  Prologues  ;  one  of  which  was 
delivered  last  week.  I  have  likewise  strung 
four  or  five  barbarous  stanzas,  to  the  tune  of 
Chevy  Chase,  by  way  of  Elegy  on  your  poor  un 
fortunate  mare,  beginning  (the  name  she  got 
here  was  Peg  Nicholson) 

**  Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare. 
As  ever  trod  on  aim ; 
But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith, 
And  past  the  mouth  o'  Cairn." 

My  best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Nicol,  and  little 
Neddy,  and  all  the  family ;  I  hope  Ned  is  a  good 
scholar,  and  will  come  out  to  gather  nuts  and 
apples  with  me  next  harvest.  R.  B 


CLxxxvin. 


TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

[Burns  looks  back  with  something  of  regret  to  the  day« 
of  rich  dinners  and  flowing  wine-cups  which  he  experi- 
enced in  Edinl)urph.  Alexander  Cunningham  and  h.i 
unhappy  loves  are  recorded  in  that  fine  scmg,  "  Had  I  a 
cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore."] 

Elluland,  IZth  February,  1790. 
I  BEO  your  pardon,  my  dear  and  much  valued 
friend,  for  writing  to  you  on  this  very  unfashion- 
able,  unsightly  sheet — 

<'  My  poverty  but  not  my  will  consents." 

But  to  make  amends,  since  of  modish  post  I 

have  none,  except  one  poor  widowed  half-sheet 

of  gilt,  which  lies  in  my  drawer  among  my  pie. 

beian  fool's-cap  pages,  like  the  widow  of  a  jnan 


422 


GENERAL   COEKESPONDENCE 


ijf  fashion,  whom  that  uupolite  scoundrel,  Ne- 
cessity, has  driven  from  Burgundy  and  Pine- 
apple, to  a  dish  of  Bohea,  with  the  scandal- 
bearing  help-mate  of  a  village-priest ;  or  a  glass 
of  whisky-toddy,  with  a  ruby-nosed  yoke-fellow 
of  a  foot-padding  exciseman — I  make  a  vow  to 
enclose  this  sheet-full  of  epistolary  fragments 
in  that  my  only  scrap  of  gilt  paper. 

I  am  indeed  your  unworthy  debtor  for  three 
friendly  letters.  I  ought  to  have  written  to 
you  long  ere  now,  but  it  is  a  literal  fact,  I  have 
scarcely  a  spare  moment.  It  is  not  that  I  will 
not  write  to  you ;  Miss  Burnet  is  not  more  dear 
to  her  guardian  angel,  nor  his  grace  the  Duke 
of  Queensbury  to  the  powers  of  darkness,  than 
my  friend  Cunningham  to  me.  It  is  not  that  I 
cannot  write  to  you ;  should  you  doubt  it,  take 
tlie  following  fragment,  which  was  intended  for 
you  some  time  ago,  and  be  convinced  that  I 
can  aniithesize  sentiment,  and  circumvolute  pe- 
riods, as  well  as  any  coiner  of  phrase  in  the 
regions  of  philology. 

December,  1789. 
My  dear  Cunningham, 

Where  are  you  ?  And  what  are  you  doing  ? 
Can  you  be  that  son  of  levity,  who  takes  up  a 
friendship  as  he  takes  up  a  fashion ;  or  are  you, 
like  some  other  of  the  worthiest  fellows  in  the 
world,  the  victim  of  indolence,  laden  with  fet- 
ters of  ever-increasing  weight  ? 

What  strange  beings  we  are  !  Since  we  have 
a  portion  of  conscious  existence,  equally  capable 
of  enjoying  pleasure,  happiness,  and  rapture, 
or  of  suflFering  pain,  wretchedness,  and  misery, 
it  is  surely  worthy  of  an  inquiry,  whether  there 
be  not  such  a  thing  as  a  science  of  life  ;  whether 
method,  economy,  and  fertility  of  expedients  be 
not  applicable  to  enjoyment,  and  whether  there 
be  not  a  want  of  dexterity  in  pleasure,  which 
renders  our  little  scantling  of  happiness  still 
less  ;  and  a  profuseness,  an  intoxication  in  bliss, 
which  leads  to  satiety,  disgust,  and  self-abhor- 
rence. There  is  not  a  doubt  but  that  health, 
talents,  character,  decent  competency,  respec- 
table friends,  are  real  substantial  blessings; 
and  yet  do  we  not  daily  see  those  who  enjoy 
many  or  all  of  these  good  things  contrive  not- 
withstanding to  be  as  unhappy  as  others  to 
whose  lot  few  of  them  have  fallen  ?  I  believe 
one  great  source  of  this  mistake  or  misconduct 
is  owing  to  a  certain  stimulus,  with  us  called 
ambition,  which  goads  us  up  the  hill  of  life,  not 
as  we  ascend  other  eminences,  for  the  laudable 


curiosity  of  viewing  an  extended  landscapo, 
but  rather  for  the  dishonest  pride  of  look 
ing  down  on  others  of  our  fellow-creatures, 
seemingly  diminutive  in  humbler  stations,  &c 
&c. 

Sunday,  \Uh  February,  1790. 

God  help  me  !  I  am  now  obliged  to 
"  Join  night  to  day,  and  Sunday  to  the  week."i 
If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  orthodox  faith  of 
these  churches,  I  am  d-mned  past  redemption, 
and  what  is  worse,  d-mned  to  all  eternity.  1 
am  deeply  read  in  Boston's  Four-fold  State, 
Marshal  on  Sanctification,  Guthrie's  Trial  of  a 
Saving  Interest,  &c. ;  but  "  there  is  no  balm  in 
Gilead,  there  is  no  physician  there,"  for  me;  so 
I  shall  e'en  turn  Arminian,  and  trust  to  "sin- 
cere though  imperfect  obedience." 

Tuesday,  \Qth. 

Luckily  for  me,  I  was  prevented  from  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  knotty  point  at  which  I  had  just 
made  a  full  stop.  All  my  fears  and  care  are 
of  this  world :  if  there  is  another,  an  hones-t 
man  has  nothing  to  fear  from  it.  I  hate  a  man 
that  wishes  to  be  a  Deist :  but  I  fear,  every  fair, 
unprejudiced  inquirer  must  in  some  degree  be 
a  sceptic.  It  is  not  that  there  are  any  very  stag- 
gering arguments  against  the  immortality  of 
man;  but  like  electricity,  phlogiston,  &c.,  the 
subject  is  so  involved  in  darkness,  that  we  want 
data  to  go  upon.  One  thing  frightens  me  much : 
that  we  are  to  live  for  ever,  seems  too  good  news 
to  be  true.  That  we  are  to  enter  into  a  new 
scene  of  existence,  where,  exempt  from  want 
and  pain,  we  shall  enjoy  ourselves  and  our 
friends  without  satiety  or  separation — how  much 
should  I  be  indebted  to  any  one  who  could  fully 
assure  me  that  this  was  certain ! 

My  time  is  once  more  expired.  I  will  write 
to  Mr.  Cleghorn  soon.  God  bless  him  and  all 
his  concerns !  And  may  all  the  powers  that 
preside  over  conviviality  and  friendship,  be  pre- 
sent with  all  their  kindest  influence,  when  the 
bearer  of  this,  Mr.  Syme,  and  you  meet !  I  wish 
I  could  also  make  one. 

Finally,  brethren,  farewell !  Whatsoever 
things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  gentle, 
whatsoever  things  are  charitable,  whatsoever 
things  are  kind,  thinii  on  these  things,  and 
think  on  R.  B. 


Young.    Satire  on  Womtn. 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


42ft 


CLXXXIX.  I 

TO  MR.    PETER  HILL.  j 

LThat  Burns  turned  at  this  time  his  thoughts  on  the 
ilrama,  this  order  to  his  bookseller  for  dramatic  works, 
as  well  as  his  attendance  at  the  Dumfries  theatre,  afford   ' 
proof.  i 

Ellisland,  2d  March,  1790.  ' 
At  a  late  meeting  of  the  Monkland  Friendly 
Society,  it  was  resolved  to  augment  their  library  | 
by  the  following  books,  which  you  are  to  send 
us  as  soon  as  possible :  —  The  Mirror,  The 
Lounger,  Man  of  Feeling,  Man  of  the  World, 
( these,  for  my  own  sake,  I  wish  to  have  by  the 
first  carrier),  Knox's  History  of  the  Reforma- 
tion; Rae's  History  of  the  Rebellion  in  1715; 
any  good  history  of  the  rebellion  in  1745;  A 
Display  of  the  Secession  Act  and  Testimony,  by 
Mr.  Gibb;  Hervey's  Meditations;  Beveridge's 
Thoughts ;  and  another  copy  of  Watson's  Body 
of  Divinity. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  A.  Masterton  three  or  four 
months  ago,  to  pay  some  money  he  owed  me  into 
your  hands,  and  lately  I  wrote  to  you  to  the  same 
purpose,  but  I  have  heard  from  neither  one  or 
other  of  you. 

In  addition  to  the  books  I  commissioned  in 
my  last,  I  want  very  much  An  Index  to  the  Ex- 
cise Laws,  or  an  Abridgment  of  all  the  Statutes 
now  in  force  relative  to  the  Excise,  by  Jellinger 
Symons ;  I  want  three  copies  of  this  book :  if  it 
is  now  to  be  had,  cheap  or  dear,  get  it  for  me. 
An  honest  country  neighbour  of  mine  wants  too 
a  Family  Bible,  the  larger  the  better;  but 
second-handed,  for  he  does  not  choose  to  give 
above  ten  shillings  for  the  book.  I  want  like- 
wise for  myself,  as  you  can  pick  them  up,  second- 
handed  or  cheap,  copies  of  Otway's  Dramatic 
Works,  Ben  Jonson's,  Dryden's,  Congreve's, 
Wycherley's,  Vanbrugh's,  Gibber's,  or  any  dra- 
matic works  of  the  more  modern,  Macklin,  Gar- 
rick,  Fcote,  Colman,  or  Sheridan.  A  good  copy 
too  of  Moliere,  in  French,  I  much  want.  Any 
a*her  good  dramatic  authors  in  that  language  I 
want  also ,  but  comic  authors,  chiefly,  though  I 
should  wish  to  have  Racine,  Corneille,  and  Vol- 
taire too.  I  am  in  no  hurry  for  all,  or  any  of 
these,  but  if  you  accidentally  meet  with  them 
very  cheap,  get  them  for  me. 

And  now  to  quit  the  dry  walk  of  business,  how 
do  you  do,  my  dear  friend  ?  and  how  is  Mrs. 
Hill  ?  I  trust,  if  now  and  then  not  so  elegantly 
handsome,  at  least  as  amiable,  and  sings  as 
iivinely   as   ever.     My  good  wife  too  has  a 


charming 
four 


wood-note   wild;"   now   could  w« 


I  am  out  of  all  patience  with  this  vile  world, 
for  one  thing.  Mankind  are  by  nature  benevo- 
lent creatures,  except  in  a  few  scoundrelly  in- 
stances. I  do  not  think  that  avarice  of  the  good 
things  we  chance  to  have,  is  born  with  us  ;  but 
we  are  placed  here  amid  so  much  nakedness,  and 
hunger,  and  poverty,  and  want,  that  we  are  undci- 
a  cursed  necessity  of  studying  selfishness,  in 
order  that  we  may  exist  !  Still  there  are,  in 
every  age,  a  few  souls,  that  all  the  wants  and 
woes  of  life  cannot  debase  to  selfishness,  or  even 
to  the  necessary  alloy  of  caution  and  prudence. 
If  ever  I  am  in  danger  of  vanity,  it  is  when  I 
contemplate  myself  on  this  side  of  my  disposition 
and  character.  God  knows  I  am  no  saint ;  I 
have  a  whole  host  of  follies  and  sin,  to  answer 
for ;  but  if  I  could,  and  I  believe  I  do  it  as  far 
as  I  can,  I  would  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all 
eyes. 

Adieu! 

R.  B 


CXC. 
TO  MRS.    DUNLOP. 

fit  is  not  a  little  singular  that  Bums  says,  in  this  letter, 

he  had  just  met  with  the  Mirror  and  Lounger  for  the  first 

time :   it  will  be  remembered  that  a  few  years  before  a 

j  generous  article  was  dedicated  by  Mackenzie,  the  editor, 

i  to  the  Poems  of  Burns,  and  to  this  the  poet  often  alludes 

in  his  correspondence.] 

miisland,  10th  April,  1790. 
I  HAVE  just  now,  my  ever  honoured  friend, 
enjoyed  a  very  high  luxury,  in  reading  a  paper 
of  the  Lounger.  You  know  my  national  preju- 
dices. I  had  often  read  and  admired  the  Spec- 
tator, Adventurer,  Rambler,  and  World;  but 
still  with  a  certain  regret,  that  they  were  so 
thoroughly  and  entirely  English.  Alas !  have  I 
often  said  to  myself,  what  are  all  the  boasted 
advantages  which  my  country  reaps  from  the 
union,  that  can  counterbalance  the  annihilation 
of  her  independence,  and  oven  her  very  name  ! 
I  often  repeat  that  couplet  of  my  favourite  poet. 
Goldsmith — 


-States  of  native  liberty  possest. 


Tho'  very  poor,  may  yet  be  very  blest." 
Nothing   can   reconcile   me   to   the  common 
terms,  "English   ambassador,  English  court,** 
&c.    And  I  am  out  of  all  patience  to  see  that 


424 


GENEliAL   COliUi^^i'U.SDEiNCJli 


equivocal  character,  Hastings,  impeached  by 
**the  Commons  of  England."  Tell  me,  my 
friend,  is  this  weak  prejudice?  I  believe  in  my 
conscience  such  ideas  as  "my  country  ;  her  in- 
dependence ;  her  honour ;  the  illustrious  names 
that  mark  the  history  of  my  native  land  ;"  &c. 
— I  believe  these,  among  your  men  of  the  world, 
men  who  in  fact  guide  for  the  most  part  and 
govern  our  world,  are  looked  on  as  so  many  mo- 
difications of  wrongheadedness.  They  know 
the  use  of  bawling  out  such  terms,  to  rouse  or 
lead  THE  babble;  but  for  their  own  private  use, 
with  almost  all  the  able  statesmen  that  ever 
existed,  or  now  exist,  when  they  talk  of  right 
and  wrong,  they  only  mean  proper  and  im- 
proper; and  their  measure  of  conduct  is,  not 
what  they  ouoht,  but  what  they  dare.  For 
the  truth  of  this  I  shall  not  ransack  the  history 
of  nations,  but  appeal  to  one  of  the  ablest 
judges  of  men  that  ever  lived — the  celebrated 
Earl  of  Chesterfield.  In  fact,  a  man  who  could 
thoroughly  control  his  vices  whenever  the^  in- 
terfered with  his  interests,  and  who  could  com- 
pletely put  on  the  appearance  of  every  virtue 
ds  often  as  it  suited  his  purposes,  is,  on  the 
Stanhopean  plan,  the  perfect  man;  a  man  to 
lead  nations.  But  are  great  abilities,  complete 
without  a  flaw,  and  polished  without  a  blemish, 
the  standard  of  human  excellence  ?  This  is 
certainly  the  staunch  opinion  of  men  of  the  world; 
but  I  call  on  honour,  virtue,  and  worth,  to  give 
the  Stygian  doctrine  a  loud  negative  !  How- 
ever, this  must  be  allowed,  that,  if  you  abstract 
from  man  the  idea  of  an  existence  beyond  the 
grave,  then  the  true  measure  of  human  conduct 
is,  proper  and  improper :  virtue  and  vice,  as  dis- 
positions of  the  heart,  are,  in  that  case,  of  scarce- 
ly the  same  import  and  value  to  the  world  at 
large,  as  harmony  and  discord  in  the  modifica- 
tions of  sound  ;  and  a  delicate  sense  of  honour, 
like  a  nice  ear  for  music,  though  it  may  some- 
times give  the  possessor  an  ecstasy  unknown  to 
the  coarser  organs  of  the  herd,  yet,  considering 
the  harsh  gratings,  and  inharmonic  jars,  in  this 
ill-tuned  state  of  being,  it  is  odds  but  the  indi- 
vidual would  be  as  happy,  and  certainly  would 
be  as  much  respected  by  the  true  judges  of 
Bociety  as  it  would  then  stand,  without  either  a 
good  ear  or  a  good  heart. 

You  must  know  I  have  just  met  with  the 
Mirror  and  Lounger  for  the  first  time,  and  I  am 
quite  in  raptures  with  them  ;  I  should  be  glad 
to  have  your  opinion  of  some  of  the  papers. 


The  one  I  have  just  read,  Lounger,  No.  Gl,  hat 
cost  me  more  honest  tears  than  anything  I  have 
read  of  a  long  time.  Mackenzie  has  been  called 
the  Addioon  of  the  Scots,  and  in  my  opinion, 
Addison  would  not  be  hurt  at  the  comparison. 
If  he  has  not  Addison's  exquisite  humour,  he  as 
certainly  outdoes  him  in  the  tender  and  the  r»« 
thetic.  His  Man  of  Feeling  (but  I  am  not 
counsel  learned  in  the  laws  of  criticism)  I  esti- 
mate as  the  first  performance  in  its  kind  I  ever 
saw.  From  what  book,  moral  or  even  pious, 
will  the  susceptible  young  mind  receive  impres- 
sions more  congenial  to  humanity  and  kindness, 
generosity  and  benevolence ;  in  short,  more  of 
all  that  ennobles  the  soul  to  herself,  or  enJe.irs 
her  to  others — than  from  the  simple  afi"ecting 
tale  of  poor  Harley? 

Still,  with  all  my  admiration  of  Mackenzie's 
writings,  I  do  not  know  if  they  are  the  fittest 
reading  for  a  vjung  man  who  is  about  to  set 
out,  as  the  phrase  is,  to  make  his  way  into  life. 
Do  not  you  think.  Madam,  that  among  the  few 
favoured  of  heaven  in  the  structure  of  their 
minds  (for  such  there  certainly  are)  there  may 
be  a  purity,  a  tenderness,  a  dignity,  an  elegance 
of  soul,  which  are  of  no  use,  nay,  in  some  degree, 
arbsolutely  disqualifying  for  the  truly  important 
business  of  making  a  man's  way  into  life  ?  If  I 
am  not  much  mistaken,  my  gallant  young  friend, 
A  ******,  is  very  much  under  these  dis- 
qualifications ;  and  for  the  young  females  of  a 
family  I  could  mention,  well  may  they  excite 
parental  solicitude,  for  I,  a  common  acquaint- 
ance, or  as  my  vanity  will  have  it,  an  humble 
friend,  have  often  trembled  for  a  turn  of  mind 
which  may  render  them  eminently  happy — or 
peculiarly  miserable ! 

I  have  been  manufacturing  some  verses  late- 
ly;  but  when  I  have  got  the  most  hurried  sea- 
son of  excise  business  over,  I  hope  to  have  more 
leisure  to  transcribe  anything  that  may  show 
how  much  I  have  the  honour  to  be.  Madam, 
Yours,  &c. 

R.  B. 


CXCI. 

TO  COLLECTOR   MITCHELL. 

[Collector  Mitchell  was  a  kind  and  conpiderate  gentle 
man:  to  his  grandson,  Mr.  John  Campheil,  Burgeon,  in 
Aberdeen,  I  owe  this  characteristic  letter.] 


Ellisland,  1790. 


Sir, 


I  SHALL  not  fail  to  wait  on  Captain  Riddel 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


425 


to-night — I  wish  and  pray  that  the  goddess  of 
justice  herself  would  appear  to-morrow  among 
our  hon.  gentlemen,  merely  to  give  them  a  word 
in  their  ear  that  mercy  to  the  thief  is  injustice 
to  the  honest  man.  For  my  part  I  have  gal- 
loj.ed  over  my  ten  parishes  these  four  days, 
until  this  moment  that  I  am  just  alighted,  or 
rather,  that  my  poor  jackass-skeleton  of  a 
iorse  has  let  me  down ;  for  the  miserable  devil 
has  been  on  his  knees  half  a  score  of  times 
within  the  last  twenty  miles,  telling  me  in  his 
own  way,  '  Behold,  am  not  I  thy  faithful  jade 
of  a  horse,  on  which  thou  hast  ridden  these 
many  years  I' 

In  short.  Sir,  I  have  broke  my  horse's  wind, 
and  almost  broke  my  own  neck,  besides  some 
injuries  in  a  part  that  shall  be  nameless,  owing 
to  a  hard-hearted  stone  for  a  saddle.  I  find 
that  every  offender  has  so  many  great  men  to 
espouse  his  cause,  that  I  shall  not  be  surprised 
if  I  am  committed  to  the  strong  hold  of  the 
law  to-morrow  for  insolence  to  the  dear  friends 
of  the  gentlemen  of  the  country. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir, 

Your  obliged  and  obedient  humble 
R.  B. 


CXCII. 

TO   DR.    MOORE. 

I'riie  sonnets  alluded  to  by  Burns  were  those  of  Char- 
lotte Smith  :  the  poet's  copy  is  now  before  me,  with  a 
few  marks  of  his  pen  on  the  margins.] 

Dumfries,  Excise-Office,  lAth  July,  1790. 
Sir, 
Coming  into  town  this  morning,  to  attend  my 
duty  in  this  office,  it  being  collection-day,  I  met 
with  a  gentleman  who  tells  me  he  is  on  his  way 
to  London ;  so  I  take  the  opportunity  of  writing 
to  you,  as  franking  is  at  present  under  a  tem- 
porary death.  I  shall  have  some  snatches  of 
leis«  ••=!  through  the  day,  amid  our  horrid  busi- 
ness and  bustle,  and  I  shall  improve  them  as 
well  as  I  can ;  but  let  my  letter  be  as  stupid  as 
*********,  as  miscellaneous  as  a  news- 
paper, as  short  as  a  hungry  grace-before-meat, 
or  as  long  as  a  law-paper  in  the  Douglas  cause ; 
as  ill-spelt  as  country  John's  billet-doux,  or  as  un- 
sightly a  scrawl  as  Betty  Byre-Mucker's  answer 
to  it ;  I  hope,  considering  circumstances,  you 
will  forgive  it;  and  as  it  will  put  you  to  no 
expense  of  postage,  I  shall  have  the  less  reflec- 
tion about  it. 


I  am  sadly  ungrateful  in  not  returning  you 
my  thanks  for  your  most  valuable  present,  Ze- 
luco.  In  fact,  you  are  in  some  degree  blameable 
for  my  neglect.  You  were  pleased  to  express  a 
wish  for  my  opinion  of  the  work,  which  so  flat- 
tered me,  that  nothing  less  would  serve  my 
overweening  fancy,  than  a  formal  criticism  on 
the  book.  In  fact,  I  have  gravely  planned  a 
comparative  view  of  you,  Fielding,  Richardson, 
and  Smollett,  in  your  diff^erent  qualities  and 
merits  as  novel-writers.  This,  I  own,  betrays 
my  ridiculous  vanity,  and  I  may  probably  never 
bring  the  business  to  bear ;  and  I  am  fond  of 
the  spirit  young  Elihu  shows  in  the  book  of 
Job — "And  I  said,  I  will  also  declare  my  opi- 
nion," I  have  quite  disfigured  my  copy  of  the 
book  with  my  annotations.  I  never  take  it  up 
without  at  the  same  time  taking  my  pencil,  and 
marking  with  asterisms,  parentheses,  &c.,  wher- 
ever I  meet  with  an  original  thought,  a  nervous 
remark  on  life  and  manners,  a  remarkable  well- 
turned  period,  or  a  character  sketched  with  un- 
common precision. 

Though  I  should  hardly  think  of  fairly  wri- 
ting out  my  *<  Comparative  View,"  I  shall  cer- 
tainly trouble  you  with  my  remarks,  such  as 
they  are. 

I  have  just  received  from  my  gentleman  that 
horrid  summons  in  the  book  of  Revelations — 
*'  That  time  shall  be  no  more  !" 

The  little  collection  of  sonnets  have  some 
charming  poetry  in  them.  If  indeed  I  am  in- 
debted to  the  fair  author  for  the  book,  and  not, 
as  I  rather  suspect,  to  a  celebrated  author  of 
the  other  sex,  I  should  certainly  have  written  to 
the  lady,  with  my  grateful  acknowledgments» 
and  my  own  ideas  of  the  comparative  excellence 
of  her  pieces.  I  would  do  this  last,  not  from 
any  vanity  of  thinking  that  my  remarks  could 
be  of  much  consequence  to  Mrs.  Smith,  but 
merely  from  my  own  feelings  as  an  author,  doing 
as  I  would  be  done  by.  R.  B. 


cxcjn. 

TO  MR.    MURDOCH, 

TEACHER     OF    FRENCH,    LONDON. 

[The  account  of  himself,  promised  to  Mardoeh  bj 
Buns,  was  never  written.] 

Ellisland,  July  16,  1700. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  RECEIVED  a  letter  from  you  a  long  time  ago. 


420 


GENEllAL   COlUlESPOxNDENCE 


but  unfortunately,  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  ray 
peregrinations  and  journeyiugs  through  Scot- 
land, I  mislaid  or  lost  it,  and  by  consequence 
your  direction  along  with  it.  Luckily  my  good 
star  brought  me  acquainted  with  Mr.  Kennedy, 
who,  I  understand,  is  an  acquaintance  of  yours : 
and  by  his  means  and  mediation  I  hope  to  re- 
place that  link  which  my  unfortunate  negligence 
had  so  unluckily  broke  in  the  chain  of  our  cor- 
respondence. I  was  the  more  vexed  at  the  vile 
accident,  as  my  brother  William,  a  journeyman 
saddler,  has  been  for  some  time  in  London  ;  and 
wished  above  all  things  for  your  direction,  that 
he  might  have  paid  his  respects  to  his  father's 
friend. 

His  last  address  he  sent  me  was,  "  Wm.  Burns, 
at  Mr.  Barber's,  saddler.  No.  181,  Strand."  1 
writ  him  by  Mr.  Kennedy,  but  neglected  to  ask 
him  for  your  address ;  so,  if  you  find  a  spare 
half-minute,  please  let  my  brother  know  by  a 
card  where  and  when  he  will  find  you,  and  the 
poor  fellow  will  joyfully  wait  on  you,  as  one  of 
the  few  surviving  friends  of  the  man  whose 
name,  and  Christian  name  too,  he  has  the  honour 
to  bear. 

The  next  letter  I  write  you  shall  be  a  long 
one.  I  have  much  to  tell  you  of  "  hair-breadth 
'scapes  in  th'  imminent  deadly  breach,"  with 
all  the  eventful  history  of  a  life,  the  early  years 
of  which  owed  so  much  to  your  kind  tutorage ; 
but  this  at  an  hour  of  leisure.  My  kindest  com- 
pliments to  Mrs.  Murdoch  and  family. 
I  am  ever,  my  dear  Sir, 

Your  obliged  friend, 

R.  B. 


CXCIV. 


TO   MR.  M'MUEDO. 


[This  hasty  note  was  accompanied  by  the  splendid  elegy 
on  Matthew  Henderson,  and  no  one  could  better  feel  than 
M'Murdo,  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  the  difference  between 
the  music  of  verse  and  the  clangour  of  politics.] 


EllkluKl,  2d  August,  1790. 


Sir, 


Now  that  you  are  over  with  the  sirens  of  Flat- 
tery, the  harpies  of  Corruption,  and  the  furies 
of  Ambition,  these  infernal  deities,  that  on  all 
sides,  and  in  all  parties,  preside  over  the  villa- 
nous  business  of  politics,  permit  a  rustic  muse  of 
your  acquaintance  to  do  her  best  to  soothe  you 
with  a  song. — 


You  knew  Henderson — I  have  not  flattered 
his  memory. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir, 

Your  obliged  humble  servant, 
R.  B. 


CXCV. 

TO  JVIRS.   DUNLOP. 

[Inquiries  have  been  made  in  vain  after  the  name  of 
Burns's  ci-devant  friend,  who  had  so  deeply  wounded  hie 
feelings.] 

^th  August,  1790. 
Dear  Madam, 

After  a  long  day's  toil,  plague,  and  care,  I 
sit  down  to  write  to  you.  Ask  me  not  why  I 
have  delayed  it  so  long  !  It  was  owing  to  hurry, 
indolence,  and  fifty  other  things  ;  in  short  to  any- 
thing— but  forgetf  ulness  of  la  plus  aimahle  de  son 
sexe.  By  the  bye,  you  are  indebted  your  best 
courtesy  to  me  for  this  last  compliment ;  as  I 
pay  it  from  my  sincere  conviction  of  its  truth — 
a  quality  rather  rare  in  compliments  of  these 
grinning,  bowing,  scraping  times. 

Well,  I  hope  writing  to  you  will  ease  a  little 
my  troubled  soul.  Sorely  has  it  been  bruised 
to-day!  A  ci-devant  friend  of  mine,  and  an 
intimate  acquaintance  of  yours,  has  given  my 
feelings  a  wound  that  I  perceive  will  gangrene 
dangerously  ere  it  cure.  He  has  wounded  my 
pride !  R.  B. 


CXCVI. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

["  The  strain  of  invective,"  says  the  judicious  Currie, 
of  this  letter,  "  goes  on  some  time  longer  in  the  style  in 
which  our  bard  was  too  apt  to  indulge,  and  of  which  the 
reader  has  already  seen  so  much."] 

Ellisland,  Sth  August,  1790. 

Forgive  me,  my  once  dear,  and  ever  dear 
friend,  my  seeming  negligence.  You  cannot  sit 
down  and  fancy  the  busy  life  I  lead. 

I  laid  down  my  goose-feather  to  beat  my 
brains  for  an  apt  simile,  and  had  some  thoughts 
of  a  country  grannum  at  a  family  christening ; 
a  bride  on  the  market-day  before  her  marriage; 
or  a  tavern-keeper  at  an  election-dinner ;  but 
the  resemblance  that  hits  my  fancy  best  is,  thai 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


42/ 


blackguard  miscreant,  Satan,  -who  roams  about 
like  a  roaring  lion,  seeking,  searching  whom  he 
may  devour.  However,  tossed  about  as  I  am,  if 
I  choose  (and  who  would  not  choose)  to  bind 
down  with  the  crampets  of  attention  the  brazen 
foundation  of  integrity,  I  may  rear  up  the  super- 
structure of  Independence,  and  from  its  daring 
turrets  bid  defiance  to  the  storms  of  fate.  And 
is  not  this  a  "  consummation  devoutly  to  be 
wished?" 

"  Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share; 
Lord  of  the  lion-heart,  and  eagle-eye  ! 

Tliy  steps  I  follow  with  my  bosom  bare, 
Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky !" 

Are  not  these  noble  verses  ?  They  are  the 
introduction  of  Smollett's  Ode  to  Independence: 
if  you  have  not  seen  the  poem,  I  will  send  it  to 
you. — How  wretched  is  the  man  that  hangs  on 
by  the  favours  of  the  great !  To  shrink  from 
every  dignity  of  man,  at  the  approach  of  a  lordly 
piece  of  self-consequence,  who,  amid  all  his 
tinsel  glitter,  and  stately  hauteur,  is  but  a 
creature  formed  as  thou  art — and  perhaps  not 
so  well  formed  as  thou  art — came  into  the  world 
a  puling  infant  as  thou  didst,  and  must  go  out 
of  it,  as  all  men  must,  a  naked  corse. 

R.  B. 


CXCVII. 

TO   DR.   ANDERSON. 

[The  gentleman  to  whom  this  imperfect  note  is  ad- 
dressed was  Dr.  James  Anderson,  a  well-known  agri- 
cultural and  miscellaneous  writer,  and  the  editor  of  a 
weekly  miscellany  called  the  Bee.] 

Sir, 

I  AM  much  indebted  to  my  worthy  friend,  Dr. 
Blacklock,  for  introducing  me  to  a  gentleman  of 
Dr.  Anderson's  celebrity  ;  but  when  you  do  me 
the  honour  to  ask  my  assistance  in  your  proposed 
publication,  alas,  Sir !  you  might  as  well  think 
to  cheapen  a  little  honesty  at  the  sign  of  au 
aircoate's  wig,  or  humility  under  the  Geneva 
band.  I  am  a  miserable  hurried  devil,  worn  to 
the  marrow  in  the  friction  of  holding  the  noses 
of  the  poor  publicans  to  the  grindstone  of  the 
excise!  and,  like  Milton's  Satan,  for  private 
reasons,  am  forced 

"To  do  what  yet  though  damn'd  I  would  abhor." 
— and,  except  a  couplet  or  two  of  honest  exe- 
cration ♦  ♦  ♦  * 

R.  B. 


CXCVIJI. 
TO  WILLIAM   TYTLER,  ESQ., 

OF    W00DH0U8ELEE. 

[William  Tytler  was  the  "revered  defender  of  lh« 
beauteous  Staart" — a  man  of  genius  and  a  gentleman  ] 


Lavm  Market,  August,  1790. 


Sir. 


Enclosed  I  have  sent  you  a  sample  of  the  old 
pieces  that  are  still  to  be  found  among  our  pea- 
gantry  in  the  west.  I  had  once  a  great  many  of 
these  fragments,  and  some  of  these  here,  entire ; 
but  as  I  had  no  idea  then  that  anybody  cared 
for  them,  I  have  forgotten  them.  I  invariably 
hold  it  sacrilege  to  add  anything  of  my  own  to 
help  out  with  the  shattered  wrecks  of  these 
venerable  old  compositions ;  but  they  have  many 
various  readings.  If  you  have  not  seen  these 
before,  I  know  they  will  flatter  your  true  old- 
style  Caledonian  feelings ;  at  any  rate  I  am  truly 
happy  to  have  an  opportunity  of  assuring  you 
how  sincerely  I  am,  revered  Sir, 

Your  gratefully  indebted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


CXCIX. 
TO   CRAUFORD   TAIT,  ESQ., 

EDINBURGH. 

[Margaret  Chalmers  had  now,  it  appears  by  this  letter, 
become  Mrs.  Lewis  Hay :  her  friend,  Charlotte  Hamilton, 
had  been  for  some  time  Mrs.  Adair,  of  Scarborough : 
Miss  Nimmo  was  the  lady  who  introduced  Burns  to  the 
far-famed  Clarinda.] 

Ellisland,  \bih  October,  1790. 
Dear  Sir, 

Allow  me  to  introduce  to  your  acquaintance 
the  bearer,  Mr.  Wm.  Duncan,  a  friend  of  mine, 
whom  I  have  long  known  and  long  loved.  His 
father,  whose  only  son  he  is,  has  a  decent  little 
property  in  Ayrshire,  and  has  bred  the  jCAng 
man  to  the  law,  in  which  department  he  comes 
up  an  adventurer  to  your  good  town.  I  shall 
give  you  my  friend's  character  in  two  words : 
as  to  his  head,  he  has  talents  enough,  and  more 
than  enough  for  common  life  ;  as  to  his  heart, 
when  nature  had  kneaded  the  kindly  clay  thai 
composes  it,  she  said,  *•  I  can  no  more." 

You,  my  good  Sir,  were  born  under  kindet 
stars ;  but  your  fraternal  sympathy,  I  well  know 


428 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


eau  enter  into  the  feelings  of  tlie  young  man, 
who  goes  into  life  with  the  laudable  ambition  to 
do  something,  and  to  be  something  among  his 
fellow-creatures  ;  but  whom  the  consciousness 
of  friendless  obscurity  presses  to  the  earth,  and 
wounds  to  the  soul! 

Even  the  fairest  of  his  virtues  are  against 
him.  That  independent  spirit,  and  that  ingenu- 
ous modesty,  qualities  inseparable  from  a  noble 
mind,  are,  with  the  million,  circumstances  not 
a  little  disqualifying.  What  pleasure  is  in  the 
power  of  the  fortunate  and  the  happy,  by  their 
notice  and  patronage,  to  brighten  the  counte- 
nance and  glad  the  heart  of  such  depressed 
youth  !  I  am  not  so  angry  with  mankind  for 
their  deaf  economy  of  the  purse  : — the  goods  of 
this  world  cannot  be  divided  without  being  les- 
sened— but  why  be  a  niggard  of  that  which 
bestows  bliss  on  a  fellow-creature,  yet  takes  no- 
thing from  our  own  means  of  enjoyment?  We 
wrap  ourselves  up  in  the  cloak  of  our  own 
better  fortune,  and  turn  away  our  eyes,  lest  the 
wants  and  woes  of  our  brother-mortals  should 
disturb  the  selfish  apathy  of  our  souls ! 

I  am  the  worst  hand  in  the  world  at  asking  a 
favour.  That  indirect  address,  that  insinuating 
implication,  which,  without  any  positive  request, 
plainly  expresses  your  wish,  is  a  talent  not  to 
be  acquired  at  a  plough-tail.  Tell  me  then,  for 
you  can,  in  what  periphrasis  of  language,  in 
what  circumvolution  of  phrase,  I  shall  envelope, 
yet  not  conceal  this  plain  story. — "  My  dear 
Mr.  Tait,  my  friend  Mr.  Duncan,  whom  I  have 
the  pleasure  of  introducing  to  you,  is  a  young 
lad  of  your  own  profession,  and  a  gentleman  of 
much  modesty,  and  great  worth.  Perhaps  it 
may  be  in  your  power  to  assist  him  in  the,  to 
him,  important  consideration  of  getting  a  place  ; 
but  at  all  events,  your  notice  and  acquaintance 
will  be  a  very  great  acquisition  to  him  :  and  I 
dare  pledge  myself  that  he  will  never  disgrace 
your  favour." 

,  You  may  possibly  be  surprised.  Sir,  at  such  a 
letter  from  me  ;  'tis,  I  own,  in  the  usual  way  of 
calculating  these  matters,  more  than  our  ac- 
quaintance entitles  me  to ;  but  my  answer  is 
short :— Of  all  the  men  at  your  time  of  life, 
whom  I  knew  in  Edinburgh,  you  are  the  most 
accessible  on  the  side  on  which  I  have  assailed 
you.  You  are  very  much  altered  indeed  from 
what  you  were  when  I  knew  you,  if  generosity 
point  the  path  you  will  not  tread,  or  humanity 
eall  to  you  in  vain. 


As  to  myself,  a  being  to  whose  interest  I  be- 
lieve you  are  still  a  well-wislier ;  I  am  here, 
breathing  at  all  times,  thinking  sometimes,  and 
rhyming  now  and  then.  Every  situation  has 
its  share  of  the  cares  and  pains  of  life,  and  my 
situation  I  am  persuaded  has  a  full  ordinary 
allowance  of  its  pleasures  and  enjoyments. 

My  best  compliments  to  your  father  and  Miss 
Tait.  If  you  have  an  opportunity,  please  re- 
member me  in  the  solemn  league  and  covenant 
of  friendship  to  Mrs.  Lewis  Hay.  I  am  a  wretch 
for  not  writing  her;  but  I  am  so  hackneyed 
with  self-accusation  in  that  way,  that  my  con- 
science lies  in  my  bosom  with  scarce  the  sen- 
sibility of  an  oyster  in  its  shell.  Where  is  Lady 
M'Kenzie?  wherever  she  is,  God  bless  her!  I 
likewise  beg  leave  to  trouble  you  with  com- 
pliments to  Mr.  Wm.  Hamilton;  Mrs.  Hamilton 
aad  family ;  and  Mrs.  Chalmers,  when  you  are 
in  that  country.  Should  you  meet  with  Miss 
Nimmo,  please  remember  me  kindly  to  her. 

R.  B. 


CO. 


TO 


[This  letter  contained  the  Kirk's  Alarm,  a  satire  writtei* 
to  help  the  cause  of  Dr.  M'Gill,  who  recanted  liis  heresy 
mther  than  be  removed  from  his  kirk.] 

Ellisland,  1790. 
Dear  Sir, 
Whether  in  the  way  of  my  trade  I  can  be 
of  any  service  to  the  Rev.  Doctor,  is  I  fear  very 
doubtful.  Aj ax's  shield  consisted,  I  think,  of 
seven  bull-hides  and  a  plate  of  brass,  which 
altogether  set  Hector's  utmost  force  at  defiance. 
Alas !  I  am  not  a  Hector,  and  the  worthy  Doc- 
tor's foes  are  as  securely  armed  as  Ajax  was. 
Ignorance,  superstition,  bigotry,  stupidity,  ma- 
levolence, self-conceit,  envy— all  strongly  bound 
in  a  massy  frame  of  brazen  impudence.  Good 
God,  Sir !  to  such  a  shield,  humour  is  the  peck 
of  a  sparrow,  and  satire  the  pop-gun  of  a  school- 
boy. Creation-disgracing  scelerats  such  as  they, 
God  only  can  mend,  and  the  devil  only  can 
punish.  In  the  comprehending  way  of  Caligula, 
I  wish  they  all  had  but  one  neck.  I  feel  impo- 
tent as  a  child  to  the  ardour  of  my  wishes !  O 
for  a  withering  curse  to  blast  the  germins  ot 
their  wicked  machinations  !  0  for  a  poisonoui 
tornado,  winged  from  the  torrid  zone  of  Tar- 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


429 


taras,  to  sweep  the  spreadinfj    jrop   of  their 
villanous  contrivances  to  t^  lo^-ost  hell ! 

R.  B. 


COI. 
TO  MRS.   DUNLOP. 

f  7ho  poet  wrote  Dut  several  copies  of  Tarn  o'  Shanter 
and  sent  triem  to  his  friends,  requesting  their  criticisms: 
he  wrote  few  poems  so  universally  applauded. 

Ellisland,  November,  1790.    ■ 
"As  cold  waters  to  a  thirsty  soul,  so  is  good 
news  from  a  far  country." 

Fate  has  long  owed  me  a  letter  of  good  news 
from  you,  in  return  for  the  many  tidings  of  sor- 
row which  I  have  received.  In  this  instance  I 
most  cordially  obey  the  ap<v,tle — "  Rejoice  with 
thera  that  do  rejoice" — for  me,  to  sinff  for  ]oj,  is 
no  new  thing;  but  to prea;h  for  joy,  as  I  have 
done  in  the  commencement  of  this  epistle,  is  a 
pitch  of  extravagant  rapture  to  which  I  never 
rose  before. 

I  read  your  letter — I  literally  jumped  for  joy 
— How  could  such  a  mercurial  creature  as  a 
poet  lumpishly  keep  his  seat  on  the  receipt  of 
th<  best  news  from  his  best  friend.  I  seized 
my  gilt-headed  Wangee  rod,  an  instrument  in- 
dispensably necessary  in  my  left  hand,  in  the 
moment  of  inspiration  and  rapture ;  and  stride, 
stride — quick  and  quicker — out  skipt  I  among 
the  broomy  banks  of  Nith  to  muse  over  my  joy 
by  retail.  To  keep  within  the  bounds  of  prose 
was  impossible.  Mrs.  Little's  is  a  more  elegant, 
>>ut  not  a  more  sincere  compliment  to  the  sweet 
ittle  fellow,  than  I,  extempore  almost,  poured 
»ut  to  him  in  the  following  verses  : — 

Sweet  flow'ret,  pledge  o'  meikle  love 

And  ward  o'  mony  a  prayer. 
What  heart  o'  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 

Sae  helpless,  sweet,  an'  fair. 
November  hirples  o'er  the  lea 

Chill  on  thy  lovely  form  ; 
But  gane,  alas !  the  shelt'ring  tree 

Should  shield  thee  frae  the  storm. 

I  am  much  flattered  by  your  approbation  of 
my  Tam  o'  Shanter,  which  you  express  in  your 
former  letter  ;  though,  by  the  bye,  you  load  me 
\n  that  said  letter  with  accusations  heavy  and 
many ;  to  all  which  I  plead,  not  guilty !  Your 
book  is,  I  hear,  on  the  road  to  reach  me.     As 


to  printing  of  poetry,  when  you  prepare  it  for 
the  presfe,  you  have  only  to  spell  it  right,  and 
place  the  capital  letters  properly:  as  to  the 
punctuation,  the  printers  do  that  themselves. 

I  have  a  copy  of  Tam  o'  Shanter  ready  to  send 
you  by  the  first  opportunity :  it  is  too  heavy  to 
send  by  post. 

I  heard  of  Mr.  Corbet  lately.  He,  in  conse- 
quence of  your  recommendation,  is  most  zealcca 
to  serve  me.  Please  favour  me  soon  with  an 
account  of  your  good  folks ;  if  Mrs.  H.  is  re- 
covering, and  the  young  gentleman  doing  well. 

R.  B. 


ecu. 

TO  LADY  W.  M.  CONSTABLE. 

[The  present  alluded  to  was  a  gold  snuff-box,  with  a 
portrait  of  Queen  Mary  on  the  lid.] 

Ellisland,  Wth  January,  1791 
My  Lady, 
Nothing  less  than  the  unlucky  accident  of 
having  lately  broken  my  right  arm,  could  have 
prevented  me,  the  moment  I  received  your  lady- 
ship's elegant  present  by  Mrs.  Miller,  from  re- 
turning you  my  warmest  and  most  grateful 
acknowledgments.  I  assure  your  ladyship,  I 
shall  set  it  apart — the  symbols  of  religion  shall 
only  be  more  sacred.  In  the  moment  of  poetic 
composition,  the  box  shall  be  my  ins})iring 
genius.  When  I  would  breathe  the  compre- 
hensive wish  of  benevolence  for  the  happiness 
of  others,  I  shall  recollect  your  ladyship ;  when 
I  would  interest  my  fancy  in  the  distresses  in- 
cident to  humanity,  1  shall  remember  the  unfor- 
tunate Mary.  R.  B. 


ccin. 

TO  WILLIAM  DUNBAR,  W.  S. 

[This  letter  was  in  answer  to  one  from  DnnbEr  ia 
which  the  witty  colonel  of  the  Crochnllan  FencibjCi 
supposed  the  poet  had  been  translated  to  Elysium  to  sing 
to  the  immortals,  as  his  voice  had  not  been  heard  of  lat« 
on  earth.] 

Ellisland,  17th  January,  1791. 
I  AM  not  gone  to  Elysium,  most  noble  colonel, 
but  am  still  here  in  this  sublunary  world,  serv- 
ing my  God,  by  propagating  his  image,  and 


130 


GENEllAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


honouring  my  king  by  begetting  him  loyal  sub- 
jects. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  await  my 
friend.  May  the  thorns  of  care  never  beset  his 
path  !  May  peace  be  an  inmate  of  his  bosom, 
and  rapture  a  frequent  visitor  of  his  soul !  May 
the  blood-hounds  of  misfortune  never  track  his 
steps,  nor  the  screech-owl  of  sorrow  alarm  his 
dwelling!  May  enjoyment  tell  thy  hours,  and 
pleasure  number  thy  days,  thou  friend  of  the 
bard !  "  Blessed  be  he  that  blesseth  thee,  and 
cursed  be  he  that  curseth  thee  ! !  !" 

As  a  further  proof  that  I  am  still  in  the  land 
of  existence,  I  send  you  a  poem,  the  latest  I 
have  composed.  I  have  a  particular  reason  for 
wishing  you  only  to  show  it  to  select  friends, 
should  you  think  it  worthy  a  friend's  persual ; 
but  if,  at  your  first  leisure  hour,  you  will  favour 
me  with  your  opinion  of,  and  strictures  on  the 
performance,  it  will  be  an  additional  obligation 
on,  dear  Sir,  your  deeply  indebted  humble  ser- 
vant, R.  B. 


cciv. 

TO   MR.   PETER   HILL. 

[The  poet's  eloquent  apostrophe  to  poverty  has  no  little 
feeling  in  it :  he  beheld  the  money  which  his  poems 
brought  melt  silently  away,  and  he  looked  to  the  future 
with  more  fear  than  hope.] 

EUisland,  17th  January,  1791. 
Take  these  two  guineas,  and  place  them  over 
against  that  d-mned  account  of  yours !  which 
has  gagged  my  mouth  these  five  or  six  months! 
I  can  as  little  write  good  things  as  apologies  to 
the  man  I  owe  money  to.  0  the  supreme  curse 
of  making  three  guineas  do  the  business  of  five! 
Not  all  the  labours  of  Hercules ;  not  all  the 
Hebrews'  three  centuries  of  Egyptian  bondage, 
were  such  an  insuperable  business,  such  an 
infernal  task !  !  Poverty !  thou  half-sister  of 
death,  thou  cousin-german  of  hell  :  where  shall 
I  find  force  of  execration  equal  to  the  amplitude 
of  thy  demerits  ?  Oppressed  by  thee,  the  vene- 
rable ancient,  grown  hoary  in  the  practice  of 
every  virtue,  laden  with  years  and  wretched- 
ness, implores  a  little — little  aid  to  support  his 
existence,  from  a  stony-hearted  son  of  Mammon, 
whose  sun  of  prosperity  never  knew  a  cloud ; 
and  is  by  him  denied  and  insulted.  Oppressed 
by  thee,  the  mnn  of  sentiment,  whose  heart 
glows  with  independence,  and  melts  with  sensi- 


bility, inly  pines  under  the  neglect,  or  writhes 
in  bitterness  of  soul,  under  the  contumely  of 
arrogant,  unfeeling  wealth.  Oppressed  by  thee, 
the  son  of  genius,  whose  ill-starred  ambition 
plants  him  at  the  tables  of  the  fashionable  and 
politC;  must  see  in  suffering  silence,  his  remark 
neglected,  and  his  person  despised,  while  shal- 
low greatness  in  his  idiot  attempts  at  wit,  shall 
meet  with  countenance  and  applause.  Nor  is  it 
only  the  family  of  worth  that  have  reason  tc 
complain  of  thee:  the  children  of  folly  and  vice, 
though  in  common  with  thee  the  offspring  of 
evil,  smart  equally  under  thy  rod.  Owing  to 
thee,  the  man  of  unfortunate  disposition  and 
neglected  education,  is  condemned  as  a  fool  for 
his  dissipation,  despised  and  shunned  as  a 
needy  wretch,  when  his  follies  as  usual  bring 
him  to  want;  and  when  his  unprincipled  ne- 
cessities drive  him  to  dishonest  practices,  he  is 
abhorred  as  a  miscreant,  and  perishes  by  the 
justice  of  his  country.  But  far  otherwise  is 
the  lot  of  the  man  of  family  and  fortune.  His 
early  follies  and  extravagance,  are  spirit  and 
fire ;  his  consequent  wants  are  the  embarrass- 
ments of  an  honest  fellow ;  and  when,  to  remedy 
the  matter,  he  has  gained  a  legal  commission  to 
plunder  distant  provinces,  or  massacre  peaceful 
nations,  he  returns,  perhaps,  laden  with  the 
spoils  of  rapine  and  murder  ;  lives  wicked  and 
respected,  and  dies  a  scoundrel  and  a  lord. — 
Nay,  worst  of  all,  alas  for  helpless  woman  !  the 
needy  prostitute,  who  has  shivered  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  street,  waiting  to  earn  the  wages  of 
casual  prostitution,  is  left  neglected  and  in- 
sulted, ridden  down  by  the  chariot  wheels  of 
the  coroneted  Rip,  hurrying  on  to  the  guilty 
assignation ;  she  who  without  the  same  neces- 
sities to  plead,  riots  nightly  in  the  same  guilty 
trade. 

Well !  divines  may  say  of  it  what  they  please  ; 
but  execration  is  to  the  mind  what  phlebotomy 
is  to  the  body :  the  vital  sluices  of  both  are 
wonderfully  relieved  by  their  respective  evacua- 
tions. R"  B. 


CCV. 

TO   MR.    CUNNINGHAM. 

[To  Alexander  Cunningham  the  poet  generally  comma 
nicated  his  favourite  compositions.] 

EUisland,  2Zd  January,  1791. 
Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  to  you, 
my  dear  friend  !     As  many  of  the  good  things 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


431 


Df  this  life,  aa  is  consistent  with  the  usual  mix- 
ture of  good  and  evil  in  the  cup  of  being ! 

I  have  just  finished  a  poem  (Tam  o'  Shanter) 
which  you  will  receive  enclosed.  It  is  my  first 
essay  in  the  way  of  tales. 

I  have  these  several  months  been  hammering 
at  an  elegy  on  the  amiable  and  accomplished 
Miss  Burnet.  I  have  got,  and  can  get,  no  far- 
ther than  the  following  fragment,  on  which 
please  give  me  your  strictures.  In  all  kinds  of 
poetic  composition,  I  set  great  store  by  your 
opinion  ;  but  in  sentimental  verses,  in  the  poetry 
of  the  heart,  no  Roman  Catholic  ever  set  more 
value  on  the  infallibility  of  the  Holy  Father 
than  I  do  on  yours. 

I  mean  the  introductory  couplets  as  text 
verses. 

ELEGY 

ON  THE  LATE  MISS  BURNET,  OP  MONBODDO. 

Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize 
As  Burnet  lovely  from  her  native  skies  ; 
Nor  envious  death  so  triumph'd  in  a  blow, 
As  that  which  laid  th'  accomplish'd  Burnet  low. 


Let  me  hear  from  you  soon.     Adieu ! 


R.  B. 


CCVI. 

TO   A.  F.  TYTLER,   ESQ. 

["  I  have  seldom  in  my  life,"  says  Lord  Woodhouselee, 
"  tasted  a  higher  enjoyment  from  any  work  of  genius 
than  I  received  from  Tum  o'  Shanter."] 


Sir, 


EllUsland,  February,  1791. 


Nothing  less  than  the  unfortunate  accident 
I  have  met  with,  could  have  prevented  my 
grateful  acknowledgments  for  your  letter.  His 
own  lavourite  poem,  and  that  an  essay  in  the 
walk  of  the  muses  entirely  new  to  him,  where 
consequently  his  hopes  and  fears  were  on  the 
most  anxious  alarm  for  his  success  in  the 
attempt ;  to  have  that  poem  so  much  applauded 
by  one  of  the  first  judges,  was  the  most  delicious 
vibration  that  ever  thrilled  along  the  heart- 
strings of  a  poor  poet.  However,  Providence, 
to  keep  up  the  proper  proportion  of  evil  with 
the  good,  which  it  seems  is  necessary  in  this 
sublunary  state,  thought  proper  to  check  my 
exultation  by  a  very  serious  misfortune.  A  day 
or  two  after  I  received  your  letter,  my  horse 


came  down  with  me  and  broke  my  right  arm. 
As  this  is  the  first  service  my  arm  has  done  me 
since  its  disaster,  I  find  myself  unable  to  do 
more  than  just  in  general  terms  thank  you  for 
this  additional  instance  of  your  patronage  and 
friendship.  As  to  the  faults  you  detected  in  the 
piece,  they  are  truly  there:  one  of  them,  the 
hit  at  the  lawyer  and  priest,  I  shall  cut  out;  as 
to  the  falling  ofi"  in  the  catastrophe,  for  the  rea- 
son you  justly  adduce,  it  cannot  easily  be  reme- 
died. Your  approbation.  Sir,  has  given  me 
such  additional  spirits  to  persevere  in  this 
species  of  poetic  composition,  that  I  am  already 
revolving  two  or  three  stories  in  my  fancy.  If 
I  can  bring  these  floating  ideas  to  bear  any 
kind  of  embodied  form,  it  will  give  me  addi- 
tional opportunity  of  assuring  you  how  much  I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  &c.  R.  B 


CCVII. 
TO  MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[The  elegy  on  the  beautiful  Miss  Burnet,  of  Monboddo. 
was  laboured  zealously  by  Burns,  but  it  never  reached 
the  excellence  of  some  of  his  other  compositions.] 

Ellisland,  1th  Feb.  1791. 

When  I  tell  you.  Madam,  that  by  a  fall,  not 
from  my  horse,  but  with  my  horse,  I  have  been 
a  cripple  some  time,  and  that  this  is  the  first 
day  my  arm  and  hand  have  been  able  to  serve 
me  in  writing;  you  will  allow  that  it  is  too  good 
an  apology  for  my  seemingly  ungrateful  silence. 
I  am  now  getting  better,  and  am  able  to  rhyme 
a  little,  which  implies  some  tolerable  ease  ;  as 
I  cannot  think  that  the  most  poetic  genius  is 
able  to  compose  on  the  rack. 

I  do  not  remember  if  ever  I  mentioned  to  you 
my  having  an  idea  of  composing  an  elegy  on  the 
late  Miss  Burnet,  of  Monboddo.  I  had  the 
honour  of  being  pretty  well  acquainted  with 
her,  and  have  seldom  felt  so  much  at  the  loss 
of  an  acquaintance,  as  when  I  heard  that  so 
amiable  and  accomplished  a  piece  of  God's  work 
was  no  more.  I  have,  as  yet,  gone  no  farther 
than  the  following  fragment,  of  which  please 
let  me  have  your  opinion.  You  know  that  elegy 
is  a  subject  so  much  exhausted,  that  any  new 
idea  on  the  business  is  not  to  be  expected  :  'tia 
well  if  we  can  place  an  old  idea  in  a  new  light. 
How  far  I  have  succeeded  as  to  this  last,  jou 


432 


GENERAL    CORllESPONDENCE 


will  judge  from  what  follows.    I  have  proceeded 
no  further. 

Your  kind  letter,  with  your  kind  remembrance 
of  your  godson,  came  safe.  This  last,  Madam, 
is  scarcely  what  my  pride  can  bear.  As  to 
the  little  fellow,  he  is,  partiality  apart,  the 
finest  boy  1  have  for  a  long  time  seen.  He  is 
now  seventeen  months  old,  has  the  small-pox 
and  m'iasles  over,  has  cut  several  teeth,  and 
never  had  a  grain  of  doctor's  drugs  in  his 
bowels. 

I  am  truly  happy  to  hear  that  the  "little 
floweret"  is  blooming  so  fresh  and  fair,  and 
that  the  "  mother  plant"  is  rather  recovering 
her  drooping  head.  Soon  and  well  may  her 
"  cruel  wounds"  be  healed.  I  have  written  thus 
far  with  a  good  deal  of  difl&culty.  When  I  get 
a  little  abler  you  shall  hear  farther  from, 
Madam,  yours, 

R.  B. 


CCVIII. 
TO   THE   REV.  ARCH.  ALISON. 

[Alisfin  wrisrnuch  gratified,  it  is  said,  with  thisrecog-ni- 
tion  of  the  principles  laid  down  in  liis  ingenious  and  popu- 
lar work.] 

Ellidand,  near  Dumfries,  lith  Feb.  1791. 

S[R, 

You  mnst  by  this  time  have  set  me  down  as 
one  of  the  most  ungrateful  of  men.  You  did 
me  the  honour  to  present  me  with  a  book, 
which  does  honour  to  science  and  the  intel- 
lectual powers  of  man,  and  I  have  not  even  so 
much  as  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  it.  The 
fact  is,  you  yourself  are  to  blame  for  it.  Flat- 
tered as  I  was  by  your  telling  me  that  you 
wished  to  have  my  opinion  of  the  work,  the 
old  spiritual  enemy  of  mankind,  who  knows 
well  that  vanity  is  one  of  the  sins  that  most 
easily  beset  me,  put  it  into  my  head  to  ponder 
over  the  performance  with  the  look-out  of  a 
critic,  and  to  draw  up  forsooth  a  deep  learned 
digest  of  strictures  on  a  composition,  of  which, 
in  fact,  until  I  read  the  book,  I  did  not  even 
know  the  first  principles.  I  own,  Sir,  that  at 
first  glance,  several  of  your  propositions  star- 
tled me  as  paradoxical.  That  the  martial  clan- 
gour of  a  trumpet  had  something  in  it  vastly 
more  grand,  heroic,  and  sublime,  than  the  twin- 
gle  twangle  of  a  jew's-harp:  that  the  delicate 
lexure  of   a  rose-twig,   when   the   half-blown 


flower  is  heavy  with  the  tears  of  the  dawn,  was 
infinitely  more  beautiful  and  elegant  than  the 
upright  stub  of  a  burdock  ;  and  that  from  some- 
thing innate  and  independent  of  all  associations 
of  ideas  ; — these  I  had  set  down  as  irrefragable, 
orthodox  truths,  until  perusing  your  book  shook 
my  faith. — In  short,  Sir,  except  Euclid's  Ele- 
ments of  Geometry,  which  I  made  a  shift  to  un- 
ravel by  my  father's  fire-side,  in  the  winter 
evening  of  the  first  season  I  held  the  plough,  I 
never  read  a  book  which  gave  me  such  a  quan- 
tum of  information,  and  added  so  much  to  my 
stock  of  ideas,  as  your  "  Essays  on  the  Prin- 
ciples of  Taste."  One  thing.  Sir,  you  must  for- 
give my  mentioning  as  an  uncommon  merit  in 
the  work,  I  mean  the  language.  To  clothe  ab- 
stract philosophy  in  elegance  of  style,  sounds 
something  like  a  contradiction  in  terms;,  but 
you  have  convinced  me  that  they  are  quite  com- 
patible. 

I  enclose  you  some  poetic  bagatelles  of  my 
late  composition.  The  one  in  print '  is  my  first 
essay  in  the  way  of  telling  a  tale. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 

R.  B. 


CCIX. 
TO  DR.    MOORE. 


[Moore  admired  but  moderately  the  beautiful  ballad  on 
Queen  Mary,  and  the  Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Hen- 
derson :  Tam  o'Shanter  he  thought  full  of  poetical  beau- 
ties.— He  again  regrets  that  he  writes  in  the  language  of 
Scotland.] 

Ellisland,  20th  February,  1791. 

I  DO  not  know,  Sir,  whether  you  are  a  sub- 
scriber to  Grose^ s Antiquities  of  Scotland.  If  you 
are,  the  enclosed  poem  will  not  be  altogether 
new  to  you.  Captain  Grose  did  me  the  favour 
to  send  me  a  dozen  copies  of  the  proof  sheet, 
of  which  this  is  one.  Should  you  have  read 
the  piece  before,  still  this  will  answer  the  prin- 
cipal end  I  have  in  view  :  it  will  give  me  another 
opportunity  of  thanking  you  for  all  your  good- 
ness to  the  rustic  bard  ;  and  also  of  showing 
you,  that  the  abilities  you  have  been  pleased  to 
commend  and  patronize  are  still  employed  in  the 
way  you  wish. 

The  Elegy  on  Captain  Henderson,  is  a  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  a  man  I  loved  much.     Poets 

1  Tam  o'  Shanter. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


433 


liave  in  this  the  same  advantage  as  Roman  Ca- 
tholics ;  they  can  be  of  service  to  their  friends 
after  they  have  passed  that  bourne  where  all 
other  kindness  ceases  to  be  of  avail.  Whether, 
after  all,  either  the  one  or  the  other  be  of  any 
real  service  to  the  dead,  is,  I  fear,  very  proble- 
matical ;  but  I  am  sure  they  are  highly  grati- 
fying to  the  living ;  and  as  a  very  orthodox 
text,  I  forget  where  in  scripture,  says,  "  what- 
soever is  not  of  faith  is  sin  ;"  so  say  I,  what- 
soever is  not  detrimental  to  society,  and  is  of 
positive  enjoyment,  is  of  God,  the  giver  of  all 
good  tilings,  and  ought  to  be  received  and  en- 
joyed by  his  creaitures  witli  thankful  delight. 
As  almost  all  my  religious  tenets  originate  from 
my  heart,  I  am  wonderfully  pleased  with  the 
idea,  that  I  can  still  keep  up  a  tender  intercourse 
with  the  dearly  beloved  friend,  or  still  more 
dearly  beloved  mistress,  who  is  gone  to  the  world 
of  spirits. 

The  ballad  on  Queen  Mary  was  begun  while  I 
was  busy  with  Percy's  Eeliques  of  English  Poetry. 
By  the  way,  how  much  is  every  honest  heart, 
which  has  a  tincture  of  Caledonian  prejudice, 
obliged  to  3'ou  for  your  glorious  story  of  Bu- 
chanan and  Targe!  'Twas  an  unequivocal  proof 
of  your  loyal  gallantry  of  soul,  giving  Targe  the 
victory.  I  should  have  been  mortified  to  the 
ground  if  you  had  not. 

I  have  just  read  over,  once  more  of  many 
times,  your  Zeluco.  1  marked  with  my  pencil, 
as  I  went  along,  every  passage  that  pleased  me 
particularly  above  the  rest ;  and  one  or  two,  I 
think,  which  with  humble  deference,  I  am  dis- 
posed to  think  unequal  to  the  merits  of  the  book. 
I  have  sometimes  thought  to  transcribe  these 
marked  passages,  or  at  least  so  much  of  them 
bii  to  point  where  they  are,  and  send  them  to 
you.  Original  strokes  that  strongly  depict  the 
human  heart,  is  your  and  Fielding's  province 
beyond  any  other  novelist  I  have  ever  perused. 
Richardson  indeed  might  perhaps  be  excepted ; 
but  unhappily,  dramatis  persona  are  beings  of 
another  world ;  and  however  they  may  captivate 
the  unexperienced,  romantic  fancy  of  a  boy  or 
a  girl,  they  will  ever,  in  proportion  as  we  have 
made  human  nature  our  study,  dissatisfy  our 
riper  years. 

As  to  my  private  concerns,  I  am  going  on,  a 
mighty  tax-gatherer  before  the  Lord,  and  have 
lately  had  the  interest  to  get  myself  ranked 
on  the  list  of  excise  as  a  supervisor.  I  am  not 
yet  employed  as  such,  but  in  a  few  years  I  shall 


fall  into  the  file  of  supervisorship  by  seniority. 
I  have  had  an  immense  loss  in  the  death  of  the 
Earl  of  Glencairn ;  the  patron  from  whom  all 
my  fame  and  fortune  took  its  rise.  Independent 
of  my  grateful  attachment  to  him,  which  was 
indeed  so  strong  that  it  pervaded  my  very  soul, 
and  was  entwined  with  the  thread  of  my  exist- 
ence :  so  soon  as  the  prince's  friends  had  got  in 
(and  every  dog  you  know  has  his  day),  my  get- 
ting forward  in  the  excise  would  have  been  an 
easier  business  than  otherwise  it  will  be. 
Though  this  was  a  consummation  devoutly  to 
be  wished,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  I  can  live  ana 
rhyme  as  I  am ;  and  as  to  my  boys,  poor  little 
fellows !  if  I  cannot  place  them  on  as  high  au 
elevation  in  life,  as  I  could  wish,  I  shall,  if  I  am 
favoured  so  much  of  the  Disposer  of  events  as  to 
see  that  period,  fix  them  on  as  broad  and  inde- 
pendent a  basis  as  possible.  Among  the  many 
wise  adages  which  have  been  treasured  up  by 
our  Scottish  ancestors,  this  is  one  of  the  best. 
Better  be  the  head  o'  the  commonalty,  than  the  tail 
o'  the  gentry. 

But  I  am  got  on  a  subject,  which  however  in 
teresting  to  me,  is  of  no  manner  of  consequence 
to  you ;  so  I  shall  give  you  a  short  poem  on  the 
other  page,  and  close  this  with  assuring  you 
how  sincerely  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
Yours,  &c. 

R.  B. 

Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a  book,  which  I 
presented  to  a  very  young  lady,  whom  I  had 
formerly  characterized  under  the  denomination 
of  The  Rose  Bud.  *  *  * 


CCX. 
TO  MR.   CUNNINGHAM. 

[Cunningham  could  tell  a  merry  story,  and  shg  a  1% 
morous  song ;  nor  was  he  without  a  feeling  for  the  de«f 
sensibilities  of  his  friend's  verse.] 

Ellisland,  12th  March,  1791. 
If  the  foregoing  piece  be  worth  your  stric- 
tures, let  me  have  them.  For  my  own  part,  a 
thing  that  I  have  just  composed  always  appears 
through  a  double  portion  of  that  partial  medium 
in  which  an  author  will  ever  view  his  own  works. 
I  believe  in  general,  novelty  has  something  in  it 
that  inebriates  the  fancy,  and  not  unfrequently 
dissipates  and  fumes  away  like  other  intoxica- 
tion, and  leaves  the  poor  patient,  as  usual,  wi  th 


481 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


an  aching  heart.  A  striking  instance  of  this 
might  be  adduced,  in  the  revolution  of  many  a 
hymeneal  honeymoon.  But  lest  I  sink  into 
stupid  prose,  and  so  sacrilegiously  intrude  on 
the  office  of  my  parish-priest,  I  shall  fill  up  the 
page  in  my  own  way,  and  give  you  another  song 
of  my  late  composition,  which  will  appear  per- 
haps in  Johnson's  work,  as  well  as  the  former. 
You  must  know  a  beautiful  Jacobite  air, 
There'll  never  be  peace  'till  Jamie  comes  hame. 
When  political  combustion  ceases  to  be  the  ob- 
ject of  princes  and  patriots,  it  then  you  know 
becomes  the  lawful  prey  of  historians  and  poets. 

By  yon  castle  wa'  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

I  heard  a  man  sing,  tho'  his  head  it  was  grey ; 

And  as  he  was   singing,  the   tears   fast   down 

came — 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

If  you  like  the  air,  and  if  the  stanzas  hit  your 
fancy,  you  cannot  imagine,  my  dear  friend,  how 
much  you  would  oblige  me,  if  by  the  charms  of 
your  delightful  voice,  you  would  give  my  honest 
effusion  to  "  the  memory  of  joys  that  are  past," 
to  the  few  friends  whom  you  indulge  in  that 
pleasure.  But  I  have  scribbled  on  'till  I  hear 
the  clock  has  intimated  the  near  approach  of 

That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane. — 

So  good  night  to  you  !  Sound  be  your  sleep,  and 
delectable  your  dreams  !  Apropos,  how  do  you 
like  this  thought  in  a  ballad,  I  have  just  now 
on  the  tapis  ? 

I  look  to  the  west  when  I  gae  to  rest. 

That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers  may 
be; 

Far,  far  in  the  west  is  he  I  lo'e  best, 

The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me ! 

Good  night,  once  more,  and  God  bless  you ! 

R.  B. 


CCXI. 
TO  MR.   ALEXANDER  DALZEL, 

FACTOR,    FINDLATSTON. 

(^Cromek  says  that  Alexander  Dalzel  introduced  the 
joetry  of  Burns  to  the  notice  of  the  Earl  of  Glencai  rn,  who 
W-ried  the  Kilmarnock  edition  with  him  to  Edinburgh, 


and  beprged  that  the  poet  would  let  him  know  what  his 
views  in  the  world  were,  that  he  might  further  them.] 

Ellisland,  l^th  March,  1791. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  HAVE  taken  the  liberty  to  franlc  this  letter 
to  you,  as  it  encloses  an  idle  poem  of  mine, 
which  I  send  you;  and  God  knows  you  may 
perhaps  pay  dear  enough  for  it  if  you  read  it 
through.  Not  that  this  is  my  own  opinion ;  but 
the  author,  by  the  time  he  has  composed  and 
corrected  his  work,  has  quite  pored  away  all 
his  powers  of  critical  discrimination. 

I  can  easily  guess  from  my  own  heart,  what 
you  have  felt  on  a  late  most  melancholy  event. 
God  knows  what  I  have  suffered,  at  the  loss  of 
my  best  friend,  my  first  and  dearest  patron  and 
benefactor ;  the  man  to  whom  I  owe  all  that  I 
am  and  have  !  I  am  gone  into  mourning  for 
him,  and  with  more  sincerity  of  grief  than  I 
fear  some  will,  who  by  nature's  ties  ought  to 
feel  on  the  occasion. 

I  will  be  exceedingly  obliged  to  you,  indeed, 
to  let  me  know  the  news  of  the  noble  family, 
how  the  poor  mother  and  the  two  sisters  sup- 
port their  loss.  I  had  a  packet  of  poetic  baga- 
telles ready  to  send  to  Lady  Betty,  when  I  saw 
the  fatal  tidings  in  the  newspaper.  I  see  by  the 
same  channel  that  the  honoured  remains  of  my 
noble  patron,  are  designed  to  be  brought  to  the 
family  burial-place.  Dare  I  trouble  you  to  let 
me  know  privately  before  the  day  of  interment, 
that  I  may  cross  the  country,  and  steal  among 
the  crowd,  to  pay  a  tear  to  the  last  sight  of  my 
ever  revered  benefactor  ?  It  will  oblige  me 
beyond  expression.  R-  B. 


CCXII. 
TO   MRS.   GRAHAM, 

OF   FINTRAY. 

[Mrs.  Graham,  of  Fintray,  felt  both  as  a  lady  and  a 
Scottish  one,  the  tender  Lament  of  the  fair  and  unfortu- 
nate princess,  which  this  letter  contained.] 

Ellisland,  1791. 
Madam, 
Whether  it  is  that  the  story  of  our  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  has  a  peculiar  effect  on  the 
feelings  of  a  poet,  or  whether  I  have,  in  the  en- 
closed ballad,  succeeded  beyond  my  usual  poetic 
success,  I  know  not ;  but  it  has  pleased  me  be- 
yond any  effort  of  my  muse  for  a  good  whil« 


OF   llOBEKT   BUKNS. 


4ai: 


past ;  on  that  account  I  enclose  it  particularly 
to  you.  It  is  true,  the  purity  of  my  motives 
may  be  suspected.  I  am  already  deeply  in- 
debted to  Mr.  Graham's  goodness  ;  and  what,  in 
the  usual  ways  of  men,  is  of  infinitely  greater  im- 
portance, Mr.  G.  can  do  me  service  of  the  ut- 
most importance  in  time  to  come.  I  was  born  a 
poor  dog ;  and  however  1  may  occasionally  pick 
a  better  bone  than  I  used  to  do,  I  know  I  must 
live  and  die  poor :  but  I  will  indulge  the  flatter- 
ing faith  that  my  poetry  will  considerably  out- 
live my  poverty  ;  and  without  any  fustian  affec- 
tation of  spirit,  I  can  promise  and  affirm,  that  it 
must  be  no  ordinary  craving  of  the  latter  siall 
ever  make  me  do  anything  injurious  to  the  honest 
fame  of  the  former.  "Whatever  may  be  my 
failings,  for  failings  are  a  part  of  human  nature, 
may  they  ever  be  those  of  a  generous  heart,  and 
an  independent  mind  !  It  is  no  fault  of  mine 
that  I  was  born  to  dependence ;  nor  is  it  Mr. 
Graham's  chiefest  praise  that  he  can  command 
influence  ;  but  it  is  his  merit  to  bestow,  not  only 
with  the  kindness  of  a  brother,  but  with  the 
politeness  of  a  gentleman ;  and  I  trust  it  shall 
be  mine,  to  receive  with  thankfulness,  and  re- 
member with  undiminished  gratitude. 

R.  B. 


CCXIII. 
TO   MRS.    GRAHAM, 

OF    FINTRAY. 

[The  following  letter  was  written  on  the  blank  leaf  of 
K  new  edition  of  his  poems,  presented  by  the  poet,  to  one 
whom  he  regarded,  and  justly,  as  a  patroness.] 

It  is  probable,  Madam,  that  this  page  may 
be  read,  when  the  hand  that  now  writes  it  shall 
be  mouldering  in  the  dust :  may  it  then  bear 
witness,  that  I  present  you  these  volumes  as 
a  tribute  of  gratitude,  on  my  part  ardent  and 
sincere,  as  your  and  Mr.  Graham's  goodness 
to  me  has  been  generous  and  noble  !  May  every 
child  of  yours,  in  the  hour  of  need,  find  such  a 
friend  as  I  shall  teach  every  child  of  mine,  that 
their  father  found  in  you. 

R.  B. 


CCXIV. 

TO   THE   REV.  G.  BAIRD. 

(It  was  proposed  to  publish  n  new  edition  of  the  poema 
«l  Michael  Bruce,  by  subscription,  and  give  the  rrofits 


to  his  mother,  a  woman  eighty  years  old,  and  poor  and 
helpless,  and  Burns  was  asked  for  a  poem  to  give  a  new 
impulse  to  the  publication.] 

Elluland,  1791. 
Reverend  Sir, 

Why  did  you,  my  dear  Sir,  write  to  me  in 
such  a  hesitating  style  on  the  business  of  poor 
Bruce  ?  Don't  I  know,  and  have  I  not  felt,  the 
many  ills,  the  peculiar  ills  that  poetic  flest  is 
heir  to  ?  You  shall  have  your  choice  of  all  the 
unpublished  poems  I  have;  and  had  your  letter 
had  my  direction,  so  as  to  have  reached  me 
sooner  (it  only  came  to  my  hand  this  moment), 
I  should  have  directly  put  you  out  of  suspense 
on  the  subject.  I  only  ask,  that  some  prefatory 
advertisement  in  the  book,  as  well  as  the  sub- 
scription bills,  may  bear,  that  the  publication 
is  solely  for  the  benefit  of  Bruce's  mother.  I 
would  not  put  it  in  the  power  of  ignorance  to 
surmise,  or  malice  to  insinuate,  that  1  clubbed 
a  share  in  the  work  from  mercenary  motives. 
Nor  need  you  give  me  credit  for  any  remark  • 
able  generosity  in  my  part  of  the  business.  I 
have  such  a  host  of  peccadilloes,  failings,  follies, 
and  backslidings  (anybody  but  myself  might 
perhaps  give  some  of  them  a  worse  appellation), 
that  by  way  of  some  balance,  however  trifling, 
in  the  account,  I  am  fain  to  do  any  good  that 
occurs  in  my  very  limited  power  to  a  fellow- 
creature,  just  for  the  selfish  purpose  of  clearing 
a  little  the  vista  of  retrospection. 

R.  B. 


ccxv. 

TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[Francis  Wallace  Burns,  the  godson  of  Mrs.  Dunlop, 
to  whom  fnis  letter  refers,  died  at  t.l«  age  of  fourteen  - 
he  was  a  fine  and  a  promising  youth.] 

miisland,  llth  April,  1791. 
I  AM  once  more  able,  my  honoured  friend,  to 
return  you,  with  my  own  hand,  thanks  for  the 
many  instances  of  your  friendship,  and  particu- 
larly for  your  kind  anxiety  in  this  last  disaster, 
that  my  evil  genius  had  in  store  for  me.  How- 
ever, life  is  chequered— joy  and  sorrow — for  on 
Saturday  morning  last,  Mrs.  Burns  made  me  a 
present  of  a  fine  boy  ;  rather  stouter,  but  not 
80  handsome  as  your  godson  was  at  his  time  of 
life.  Indeed  I  look  on  your  little  namesake  tc 
be  my  chef  cToeuvre  in  that  species  of  manufao 
ture,  as  I  look  on  Tam  o'  Shanter  to  be  mj 
standard  performance  in  the  poetical  bne.    'Tia 


lob 


GENEKAL   COKRESPONDENCE 


true,  both  the  one  and  the  other  discover  a  spice 
of  roguish  waggery,  that  might  perhaps  be  as 
well  spared;  but  then  they  also  show,  in  my 
opinion,  a  force  of  genius  and  a  finishing  polish 
that  I  despair  of  ever  excelling.  Mrs.  Burns  is 
getting  stout  again,  and  laid  as  lustily  about  her 
to-day  at  breakfast,  as  a  reaper  from  the  corn- 
ridge.  That  is  the  peculiar  privilege  and  bless- 
ing of  our  hale,  sprightly  damsels,  that  are  bred 
among  the  hay  and  heather.  We  cannot  hope  for 
that  highly  polished  mind,  that  charming  deli- 
cacy of  soul,  which  is  found  among  the  female 
world  in  the  more  elevated  stations  of  life,  and 
which  is  certainly  by  far  the  most  bewitching 
charm  in  the  famous  cestus  of  Venus.  It  is  in- 
deed such  an  inestimable  treasure,  that  where 
it  can  be  had  in  its  native  heavenly  purity,  un- 
stained by  some  one  or  other  of  the  many  shades 
of  affectation,  and  unalloyed  by  some  one  or 
other  of  the  many  species  of  caprice,  I  declare 
to  Heaven,  I  should  think  it  cheaply  purchased 
at  the  expense  of  every  other  earthly  good  ! 
But  as  this  angelic  creature  is,  I  am  afraid, 
extremely  rare  in  any  station  and  rank  of  life, 
and  totally  denied  to  such  a  humble  one  as  mine, 
we  meaner  mortals  must  put  up  with  the  next 
rank  of  female  excellence — as  fine  a  figure  and 
face  we  can  produce  as  any  rank  of  life  what- 
ever ;  rustic,  native  grace ;  unaffected  modesty, 
and  unsullied  purity ;  nature's  mother- wit,  and 
the  rudiments  of  taste  ;  a  simplicity  of  soul,  un- 
suspicious of,  because  unacquainted  with,  the 
crooked  ways  of  a  selfish,  interested,  disingenu- 
ous world  ;  and  the  dearest  charm  of  all  the  rest, 
a  yielding  sweetness  of  disposition,  and  a  gener- 
ous warmth  of  heart,  grateful  for  love  on  our 
part,  and  ardently  glowing  with  a  more  than 
equal  return;  these,  with  a  healthy  frame,  a 
sound,  vigorous  constitution,  which  your  higher 
ranks  can  scarcely  ever  hope  to  enjoy,  are  the 
charms  of  lovely  woman  in  my  humble  walk  of 
life. 

This  is  the  greatest  effort  my  broken  arm  has 
yet  made.  Do  let  me  hear,  by  first  post,  how 
cher  petit  Monsieur  comes  on  with  his  small-pox. 
May  almighty  goodness  preserve  and  restore 
^i^  I  R.  B. 


CCXVI. 


TO 


[That  his  works  found  their  way  to  the  newspa;ors. 
Bed  have  occasioned  no  surprise  :   the  poet  gave  copies 


of  hiB  favourite  pieces  freely  to  his  fnends,  as  soon  u 
they  were  written :  who,  in  their  turn,  spread  their  fani« 
among  their  acquaintances.] 

Ellisland,  1791. 
Dear  Sib,  , 

I  AM  exceedingly  to  blame  in  not  writing  you 
long  ago  ;  but  the  truth  is,  that  I  am  the  mosl 
indolent  of  all  human  beings  ;  and  when  I  ma- 
triculate in  the  herald's  office,  I  intend  that 
my  supporters  shall  be  two  sloths,  my  crest  a 
slow- worm,  and  the  motto,  "  Deil  tak  the  fore- 
most." So  much  by  way  of  apology  for  not 
thanking  you  sooner  for  your  kind  execution  of 
my  commission. 

I  would  iave  sent  you  the  poem  ;  but  some- 
how or  other  it  found  its  way  into  the  public 
papers,  where  you  must  have  seen  it. 
I  am  ever,  dear  Sir, 

Yours  sincerely, 

R.  B. 


CCXVII. 

TO . 

[This  singular  letter  was  sent  by  Burns,  it  is  believed 
to  a  critic,  who  had  taken  him  to  task  about  obscure  lan- 
guage, and  imperfect  grammar.] 

Ellisland,  1791. 
Thou  eunuch  of  language  :  thou  Englishman, 
who  never  was  south  the  Tweed :  thou  servile 
echo  of  fashionable  barbarisms:  thou  quack, 
vending  the  nostrums  of  empirical  elocution : 
thou  marriage-maker  between  vowels  and  con- 
sonants, on  the  Gretna-green  of  caprice  :  thou 
cobler,  botching  the  flimsy  socks  of  bombast 
oratory :  thou  blacksmith,  hammering  the  rivets 
of  absurdity:  thou  butcher,  imbruing  thy  hands 
in  the  bowels  of  orthography:  thou  arch- 
heretic  in  pronunciation:  thou  pitch-pipe  of 
affected  emphasis :  thou  carpenter,  mortising  the 
awkward  joints  of  jarring  sentences:  thou 
squeaking  dissonance  of  cadence  :  thou  pimp  of 
gender  :  thou  Lion  Herald  to  silly  etymology : 
thou  antipode  of  grammar:  thou  executioner  of 
construction :  thou  brood  of  the  speech-distract- 
iug  builders  of  the  Tower  of  Babel ;  thou  lingual 
confusion  worse  confounded :  thou  scape-gallows 
from  the  land  of  syntax :  thou  scavenger  of 
mood  and  tense :  thou  murderous  accoucheur 
of  infant  learning;  thou  ignis  fatuus,  misleading 
the  steps  of  benighted  ignorance  :  thou  pickle- 
herring  in  the  puppet-show  of  nonsense :  thou 
faithful  recorder   of    barbarous   idiom :    thou 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


43"? 


persecutor  of  syllabication :  thou  baleful  meteor, 
foretelling  and  facilitating  the  rapid  approach 
»f  Nox  and  Erebus.  R.  B. 


CCXVIII. 


TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

[To  Clarke,  the  Schoolmaster,  Burns,  it  is  said,  ad- 
Jressed  several  letters,  which  on  liis  death  were  put  into 
the  fire  by  his  widow,  because  of  their  license  of  lan- 
guage.] 

11th  June,  1791. 

Let  me  interest  you,  my  dear  Cunningham, 
in  behalf  of  the  gentleman  who  waits  on  you 
with  this.  He  is  a  Mr.  Clarke,  of  Moffat,  prin- 
cipal schoolmaster  there,  and  is  at  present  suf- 
fering severely  under  the  persecution  of  one  or 
two  powerful  individuals  of  his  employers.  He 
is  accused  of  harshness  to  boys  that  were 
placed  under  his  care.  God  help  the  teacher, 
if  a  man  of  sensibility  and  genius,  and  such  is 
my  friend  Clarke,  when  a  booby  father  presents 
him  with  his  booby  son,  and  insists  on  lighting 
up  the  rays  of  science,  in  a  fellow's  head  whose 
skull  is  impervious  and  inaccessible  by  any 
other  way  than  a  positive  fracture  with  a  cud- 
gel :  a  fellow  whom  in  fact  it  savours  of  impiety 
to  attempt  making  a  scholar  of,  as  he  has  been 
marked  a  blockhead  in  the  book  of  fate,  at  the 
almighty  fiat  of  his  Creator. 

The  patrons  of  Moffat-school  are,  the  minis- 
ters, magistrates,  and  town-council  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  as  the  business  comes  now  before 
them,  let  me  beg  my  dearest  friend  to  do  every- 
thing in  his  power  to  serve  the  interests  of  a 
man  of  genius  and  worth,  and  a  man  whom  I 
particularly  respect  and  esteem.  You  know 
some  good  fellows  among  the  magistracy  and 
council,  but  particularly  you  have.much  to  say 
with  a  reverend  gentleman  to  whom  you  have  the 
honour  of  being  very  nearly  related,  and  whom 
this  country  and  age  have  had  the  honour  to  pro- 
duce. I  need  not  name  the  historian  of  Charles 
V.  I  tell  him  through  the  medium  of  his 
nephew's  influence,  that  Mr.  Clarke  is  a  gentle- 
man who  will  not  disgrace  even  his  patronage. 
I  know  the  merits  of  the  cause  thoroughly,  and 
Bay  it,  that  my  friend  is  falling  a  sacrifice  to 
prejudiced  ignorance. 

God  help  the  children  of  dependence !  Hated 
and  persecuted  by  their  enemies,  and  tco  often, 
alas  !  almost  unexceptionably,  received  by  their 


friends  with  disrespect  and  reproach,  under  the 
thin  disguise  of  cold  civility  and  humiliating 
advice.  0!  to  be  a  sturdy  savage,  stalking  in 
the  pride  of  his  independence,  amid  the  solitary 
wilds  of  his  deserts ;  rather  than  in  civilized 
life,  helplessly  to  tremble  for  a  subsistence, 
precarious  as  the  caprice  of  a  fellow-creature  I 
Every  man  has  his  virtues,  and  no  man  is  with- 
out his  failings;  and  curse  ;n  that  privileged 
plain-dealing  of  friendship,  which,  in  the  hour 
of  my  calamity,  cannot  reach  forth  the  helping 
hand  without  at  the  same  time  pointing  out 
those  failings,  and  apportioning  them  their 
share  in  procuring  my  present  distress.  My 
friends,  for  such  the  world  calls  ye,  and  such  ye 
think  yourselves  to  be,  pass  by  my  virtues  if 
you  please,  but  do,  also,  spare  my  follies :  the 
first  will  witness  in  my  breast  for  themselves, 
and  the  last  will  give  pain  enough  to  the  inge- 
nuous mind  without  you.  And  since  deviating 
more  or  less  from  the  paths  of  propriety  and 
rectitude,  must  be  incident  to  human  nature,  do 
thou.  Fortune,  put  it  in  my  power,  always  from 
myself,  and  of  myself,  to  bear  the  consequence 
of  those  errors !  I  do  not  want  to  be  inde- 
pendent that  I  may  sin,  but  I  want  to  be  inde 
pendent  in  my  sinning. 

To  return  in  this  rambling  letter  to  the  sub- 
ject I  set  out  with,  let  me  recommend  my  friend, 
Mr.  Clarke,  to  your  acquaintance  and  good  of- 
fices ;  his  worth  entitles  him  to  the  one,  and  his 
gratitude  will  merit  the  other.  I  long  much  to 
hear  from  you. 

Adieu ! 

R.  B 


CCXIX. 

TO   THE   EARL   OF   BUCHAN. 

[Lord  Buchan  printed  this  letter  in  his  Essay  on  the 
Life  of  Thomson,  in  1792.  His  lordship  invited  Burns  tc 
leave  his  corn  unreaped,  walk  from  Ellisland  to  Dryburgh, 
and  help  him  to  crown  Thomson's  bust  with  bayi,  on  Ed- 
nam  Hill,  on  the  22d  of  September.] 

Ellisland,  August  29tk,  1791. 
My  Lord, 
Lanquagb  sinks  under  the  ardour  of  my  feel- 
ings when  I  would  thank  your  lordship  for  the 
honour  you  have  done  me  in  inviting  me  to  make 
one  at  the  coronation  of  the  bust  of  Thomson. 
In  my  first  enthusiasm  in  reading  the  card  you 
did  me  the  honour  to  write  me,  I  overlooked 


4a« 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


every  obstacle,  and  determined  to  go  ;  but  I  fear 
it  will  not  be  in  my  power.  A  week  or  two's 
absence,  in  the  very  middle  of  my  harvest,  is 
what  I  much  doubt  I  dare  not  venture  on.  I 
once  already  made  a  pilgrimage  up  the  whole 
course  of  the  Tweed,  and  fondly  would  I  take 
th«  same  delightful  journey  down  the  windings 
of  that  delightful  stream. 

Your  lordship  hints  at  an  ode  for  the  occasion: 
but  who  would  write  after  Collins  ?  I  read 
over  his  verses  to  the  memory  of  Thomson,  and 
despaired. — I  got  indeed  to  the  length  of  three 
or  four  stanzas,  in  the  way  of  address  to  the 
shade  of  the  bard,  on  crowning  his  bust.  I 
shall  trouble  your  lordship  with  the  subjoined 
copy  of  them,  which,  I  am  afraid,  will  be  but  too 
convincing  a  proof  liow  unequal  I  am  to  the 
task.  However,  it  affords  me  an  opportunity 
of  approaching  your  lordship,  and  declaring  how 
sincerely  and  gratefully  I  have  the  honour  to 
be.  &c.,  R.  B. 


CCXX. 

TO  MR.  THOMAS  SLOAN. 

[Thomas  Sloanwas  a  vilest  of  Scotland  man,  and  seems, 
though  not  much  in  correspondence,  to  have  been  on  inti- 
naate  terms  with  Burns.] 

Ellisland,  Sept.  1,  1791. 
My  dear  Sloan, 

Suspense  is  worse  than  disappointment,  for 
that  reason  I  hurry  to  tell  you  that  I  just  now 
learn  that  Mr.  Ballantyne  does  not  choose  to 
interfere  more  in  the  business.  I  am  truly 
sorry  for  it,  but  cannot  help  it. 

You  blanEie  me  for  not  writing  you  sooner, 
but  you  will  please  to  recollect  that  you  omitted 
one  little  necessary  piece  of  information  ; — your 
address. 

However,  you  know  equally  well,  my  hurried 
life,  indolent  temper,  and  strength  of  attach- 
ment. It  must  be  a  longer  period  than  the 
longest  life  "  in  the  world's  hale  and  undegene- 
rate  days,"  that  will  make  me  forget  so  dear  a 
friend  as  Mr.  Sloan.  I  am  prodigal  enough  at 
times,  but  I  will  not  part  with  such  a  treasure 
as  that. 

I  can  easily  enter  into  the  emharras  of  your 
present  situation.  You  know  my  favourite  quo- 
tation from  Young — 


On  reason  build  Resolve  ! 


Tha    column  of  true  majesty  in  man  \ 


and  that  other  favourite  one  from  Thomson'! 
Alfred— 

"  What  proves  the  hero  truly  gbeat, 
Is  never,  never  to  despair." 

Or  shall  I  quote  you  an  author  of  your  ac 
quaintance  ? 

" Whether  doing,  suffering,  tf  FORBHAamo, 

You  may  do  miracles  by — persevering. " 

I  have  nothing  new  to  tell  you.  The  few 
friends  we  have  are  going  on  in  the  old  way. 
I  sold  my  crop  on  tkis  day  se'ennight,  and  sold 
it  very  well.  A  guinea  an  acre,  on  an  average, 
above  value.  But  such  a  scene  of  drunkenness 
was  hardly  ever  seen  in  this  country.  After 
the  roup  was  over,  about  thirty  people  engaged 
in  a  battle,  every  man  for  his  own  hand,  and 
fought  it  out  for  three  hours.  Nor  was  the 
scene  much  better  in  the  house.  No  fighting, 
indeed,  but  folks  lying  drunk  on  the  floor,  and 
decanting,  until  both  my  dogs  got  so  drunk  by 
attending  them,  that  they  could  not  stand,  You 
will  easily  guess  how  I  enjoyed  the  scene;  as  I 
was  no  farther  over  than  you  used  to  see  me. 

Mrs.  B.  and  family  have  been  in  Ayrshire 
these  many  weeks. 

Farewell ;  and  God  bless  you,  my  dear  friend ! 

R.  B. 


CCXXI. 

TO   LADY   E.  CUNNINGHAM. 

[The  poem  enclosed  was  the  Lament  for  James,  Earl 
of  Glencairn  :  it  id  probable  that  the  Earl's  sister  liked 
the  verses,  for  ihey  v.-ere  printed  soon  afterwards.] 

My  Lady, 
I  WOULD;  as  usual,  have  availed  myself  of  the 
privilege  your  goodness  has  allowed  me,  of  send- 
ing you  anything  I  compose  in  my  poetical  way ; 
but  as  I  had  resolved,  so  soon  as  the  shock  of 
my  irreparable  loss  would  allow  me,  to  pay  w 
tribute  to  my  late  benefactor,  I  determined  to 
make  that  the  first  piece  I  should  do  myself  the 
honour  of  sending  you.  Had  the  wing  of  my 
fancy  been  equal  to  the  ardour  of  my  heart,  the 
enclosed  had  been  much  more  worthy  your  peru- 
sal :  as  it  is,  I  beg  leave  to  lay  it  at  your  lady- 
ship's feet.  As  all  the  world  knows  mv  obliga- 
tions to  the  late  Earl  of  Glencairn,  I  would  wish 
to  shew  as  openly  that  my  heart  glows,  and  will 
ever  glow,  with  the  most  grateful  sense  and  re- 
membrance of  his  lordship's   goodness.      Th« 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


'V6^ 


sables  I  did  myself  the  honour  to  wear  to  his 
lordship's  memory,  were  not  the  "  mockery  of 
woe  "  Nor  shall  my  gratitude  perish  with  me  ! 
— if  among  my  children  I  shall  have  a  son  that 
h:«3  a  heart,  he  shall  hand  it  down  to  his  child 
as  a  family  honour,  and  a  family  debt,  that 
my  dearest  existence  I  owe  to  the  noble  house 
of  Glencairn !  , 

I  was  about  to  say,  my  lady,  that  if  you  think 
the  poem  may  venture  to  see  the  light,  I  would, 
in  some  way  or  other,  give  it  to  the  world. 

R.  B. 


CCXXII. 


TO  MR.   AINSLIE. 

[It  has  been  said  that  the  poet  loved  to  aggravate  his  fol- 
lies to  his  friends:  but  that  this  tone  of  aggravation  was 
often  ironical,  this  letter,  as  well  as  others,  might  be 
cited.] 

Ellislana,  1791. 
My  dear  Ainslie, 

Can  you  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ?  can 
you,  amid  the  horrors  of  penitence,  remorse, 

head-ache,  nausea,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  d d 

hounds  of  hell,  that  beset  a  poor  wretch,  who 
has  been  guilty  of  the  sin  of  drunkenness — can 
you  speak  peace  to  a  troubled  soul  ? 

Miserable  perdu  that  I  am,  I  have  tried  every- 
thing that  used  to  amuse  me,  but  in  vain  :  here 
must  I  sit,  a  monument  of  the  vengeance  laid 
up  in  store  for  the  wicked,  slowly  counting  every 
chick  of  the  clock  as  it  slowly,  slowly,  numbers 
over  these  lazy  scoundrels  of  hours,  who,  d — n 
them,  are  ranked  up  before  me,  every  one  at 
his  neighbour's  backside,  and  every  one  with  a 
burthen  of  anguish  on  his  back,  to  pour  on  my 
devoted  head — and  there  is  none  to  pity  me. 
My  wife  scolds  me  !  my  business  torments  me, 
and  my  sins  come  staring  me  in  the  face,  every 
one  telling  a  more  bitter  tale  than  his  fellow. — 
When  I  tell  you  even  *  *  *  has  lost  its  power 
to  please,  you  will  guess  something  of  my  hell 
within,  and  all  around  me — I  begun  Elibanks 
&Ad  Elibraes,  but  the  stanzas  fell  unenjoyed,  and 
t/afinished  from  my  listless  tongue:  at  last  I 
luckily  thought  of  reading  over  an  old  letter  of 
yours,  that  lay  by  me  in  my  book-case,  and  I 
felt  something  for  the  first  time  since  I  opened 

my  eyes,   of  pleasurable   existence. Well — 

I  begin  to  breathe  a  little,  since  I  began  to  write 
to  you.  How  are  you,  and  what  are  you  doing  ? 
How  goes  Law  ?  Apropos,  for  connexion's  sake, 
do  not  address  to  me  suporvisor,  for  that  is  an 


honour  I  cannot  pretend  to — I  am  on  the  list, 
as  we  call  it,  for  a  supervisor,  and  will  be  called 
out  by  and  bye  to  act  as  one ;  but  at  pre- 
sent, I  am  a  simple  ganger,  tho'  t'other  day  I 
got  an  appointment  to  an  excise  division  of  25i. 
per  annum  better  than  the  rest.  My  present 
inccme,  down  money,  is  70/.  per  annum. 

I  have  one  or  two  good  fellows  here   who  a. 
you  would  be  glad  to  know. 

R.  B. 


CCXXIII. 


TO   COL.    FULL  ART  ON. 

OF    FULLABTON. 

[This  letter  was  first  published  in  the  Edinbargn 
Chrcnicle.] 

Ellisland,  1791. 
Sir, 

I  HAVE  just  this  minute  got  the  frank,  and 
next  minute  must  send  it  to  post,  else  I  purposed 
to  have  sent  you  two  or  three  other  bagatelles, 
that  might  have  amused  a  vacant  hour  about 
as  well  as  "  Six  excellent  new  songs,"  or,  the 
Aberdeen  *  Prognostication  for  the  year  to  come.' 
I  shall  probably  trouble  you  soon  with  another 
packet.  About  the  gloomy  month  of  November, 
when  *  the  people  of  England  hang  and  drown 
themselves,'  anything  generally  is  better  than 
one's  own  thought. 

Fond  as  I  may  be  of  my  own  productions,  it 
is  not  for  their  sake  that  I  am  so  anxious  to 
send  you  them.  I  am  ambitious,  covetously 
ambitious  of  being  known  to  a  gentleman  whom 
I  am  proud  to  call  my  countryman;  a  gentle- 
man who  was  a  foreign  ambassador  as  soon  as 
he  was  a  man,  and  a  leader  of  armies  as  soon 
as  he  was  a  soldier,  and  that  with  an  eclat  un- 
known to  the  usual  minions  of  a  court,  men 
who,  with  all  the  adventitious  advantages  of 
princely  connexions  and  princely  fortune,  raust 
yet,  like  the  caterpillar,  labour  a  whole  lifetime 
before  they  reach  the  wished  height,  there  to 
roost  a  stupid  chrysalis,  and  doze  out  the  re* 
maining  glimmering  existence  of  old  age. 

If  the  gentleman  who  accompanied  you  when 
you  did  me  the  honour  of  calling  on  me,  is  with 
you,  I  beg  to  be  respectfully  remembered  t« 
him. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

Sir, 
Your  highly  obliged,  and  most  devoted 
Humble  servant, 

R.  B 


440 


GENEKAL   COKKESPONDENCE 


ccxxiv. 

TO   MISS   DAVIES. 

[This  accomplished  lady  was  the  youngast  daughter 
jf  Dr.  Davies,  of  Tenby,  in  Pembrokeshire  :  she  wi'sie- 
lated  to  tlie  Riddels  of  Friar's  Carse,  and  o  ae  of  her  sis- 
tsrs  ni;irried  Captain  Adam  Gordon,  of  the  noble  family 
of  Ker,mure,    She  had  both  taste  and  skill  in  verse.] 

It  is  impossible,  Madam,  that  the  generous 
warmth  and  angelic  purity  of  your  youthful 
mind,  can  have  any  idea  of  that  moral  disease 
under  which  I  unhappily  must  rank  as  the  chief 
of  sinners;  I  mean  a  torpitude  of  the  moral 
powers,  that  may  be  called,  a  lethargy  of  con- 
science. In  vain  Remorse  rears  her  horrent 
crest,  and  rouses  all  her  snakes  ;  beneath  the 
deadly  fixed  eye  and  leaden  hand  of  Indolence, 
their  wildest  ire  is  charmed  into  the  torpor  of 
the  bat,  slumbering  out  the  rigours  of  winter, 
in  the  chink  of  a  ruined  wall.  Nothing  less, 
Madam,  could  have  made  me  so  long  neglect 
your  obliging  commands.  Indeed  I  had  one 
apology — the  bagatelle  was  not  worth  present- 
ing. Besides,  so  strongly  am  I  interested  in 
Miss  Davies's  fate  and  welfare  in  the  serious 
business  of  life,  amid  its  chances  and  changes, 
that  to  make  her  the  subject  of  a  silly  ballad 
is  downright  mockery  of  these  ardent  feel- 
ings ;  'tis  like  an  impertinent  jest  to  a  dying 
friend. 

Gracious  Heaven !  why  this  disparity  between 
our  wishes  and  our  powers  ?  Why  is  the  most 
generous  wish  to  make  others  blest,  impotent 
and  ineffectual — as  the  idle  breeze  that  crosses 
the  pathless  desert!  In  my  walks  of  life  I 
have  met  with  a  few  people  to  whom  how  gladly 
would  I  have  said — "Go,  be  happy!  I  know 
that  your  hearts  have  been  wounded  by  the 
Bcorn  of  the  proud,  whom  accident  has  placed 
above  you — or  worse  still,  in  whose  hands  are, 
perhaps,  placed  many  of  the  comforts  of  your 
life.  But  there !  ascend  that  rock,  Indepen- 
dence, and  look  justly  down  on  their  little- 
ness of  soul.  Make  the  worthless  tremble 
under  your  indignation,  and  the  foolish  sink 
before  your  contempt;  and  largely  impart  that 
happiness  to  others,  which,  I  am  certain,  will 
give  yourselves  so  much  pleasure  to  bestow." 

Why,  dear  Madam,  must  I  wake  from  this 
delightful  revery,  and  find  it  all  a  dream  ? 
Why,  amid  my  generous  enthusiasm,  must  I 
find  myself  poor  and  powerless,  incapable  of 
wiping  one  tear  from  the  eye  of  pity,  or  of  add- 


ing one  comfort  to  the  friend  I  love  I — Out  upon 
the  world,  say  I,  that  its  afi'airs  are  adminiS" 
tered  so  ill !  They  talk  of  reform  ; — good  Hea- 
ven! what  a  reform  would  I  make  among  the 
sons  and  even  the  daughters  of  men ! — Down, 
immediately,  should  go  fools  from  the  high 
places,  where  misbegotten  chance  has  perked 
them  up,  and  through^  life  should  they  skulk, 
ever  haunted  by  their  native  insignificance,  as 
the  body  marches  accompanied  by  its  shadow. 
— As  for  a  much  more  formidable  class,  the 
knaves,  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  them : 
had  I  a  world,  there  should  not  be  a  knave 
in  it. 

But  the  hand  that  could  give,  I  would  libe- 
rally fill :  and  I  would  pour  delight  on  the 
heart  that  could  kindly  forgive,  and  generously 
love. 

Still  the  inequalities  of  life  are,  among  men, 
comparatively  tolerable — but  there  is  a  delicacy, 
a  tenderness,  accompanying  every  view  in  which 
we  can  place  lovely  Woman,  that  are  grated 
and  shocked  at  the  rude,  capricious  distinc- 
tions of  fortune.  Woman  is  the  blood-royal  of 
life :  let  there  be  slight  degrees  of  precedency 
among  them — but  let  them  be  all  sacred. — 
Whether  this  last  sentiment  be  right  or  wrong, 
I  am  not  accountable  ;  it  is  an  original  compo- 
nent feature  of  my  mind.  R.  B. 


CCXXV. 
TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[Burns,  says  Cromek,  acknowledged  that  a  refined  and 
accomplished  woman  w^as  a  being  all  but  new  to  hifll 
till  he  went  to  Edinburgli,  and  received  letters  froniMra. 
Dunlop.] 

Ellisland,  llth  December,  1791 
Many  thanks  to  you.  Madam,  for  your  good 
news  respecting  the  little  floweret  and  the  mo- 
ther-plant. I  hope  my  poetic  prayers  have 
been  heard,  and  will  be  answered  up  to  the 
warmest  sincerity  of  their  fullest  extent ;  and 
then  Mrs.  Henri  will  find  her  little  darling  the 
representative  of  his  late  parent,  in  everything 
but  his  abridged  existence. 

I  have  just  finished  the  following  song,  which 
to  a  lady  the  descendant  of  Wallace — and  manv 
heroes  of  his  true  illustrious  line — and  herself 
the  mother  of  several  soldiers,  needs  neithei 
preface  nor  apology. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


441 


«'  Scene — a  field  of  battle — time  of  the  day,  evening  ; 
the  icounded  and  dying  of  the  victorious  army  are 
supposed  V  /oin  in  the  following 

BONO   OF  DEATH. 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and 
yc  skies 
Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun ; 
Farewell,  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear  tender 
ties — 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run ! 

The  circumstance  that  gave  rise  to  the  fore- 
going verses  was,  looking  over  with  a  musical 
friend  M'Donald's  collection  of  Highland  airs, 
I  was  struck  with  one,  an  Isle  of  Skye  tune, 
entitled  "  Oran  and  Aoig,  or.  The  Song  of 
Death,"  to  the  measure  of  which  I  have  adapted 
my  stanzas.  I  have  of  late  composed  two  or 
three  other  little  pieces,  which,  ere  yon  full- 
orbed  moon,  whose  broad  impudent  face  now 
stares  at  old  mother  earth  all  night,  shall  have 
shrunk  into  a  modest  crescent,  just  peeping 
forth  at  dewy  dawn,  I  shall  find  an  hour  to  tran- 
scribe for  you.     A  Dieuje  vous  commende. 

R.  B. 


CCXXVI. 

TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[That  the  poet  spoke  mildly  concerning  the  rebuke 
which  he  received  from  the  Excise,  on  what  he  calls  his 
political  delinquencies,  his  letter  to  Erskine  of  Mar  suffi- 
ciently proves.] 

5th  January,  1792. 

You  see  my  hurried  life.  Madam :  I  can  only 
command  starts  of  time  ;  however,  I  am  glad  of 
one  thing ;  since  I  finished  the  other  sheet,  the 
political  blast  that  threatened  my  welfare  is 
overblown.  I  have  corresponded  with  Commis- 
sioner Graham,  for  the  board  had  made  me  the 
subject  of  their  animadversions ;  and  now  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  informing  you,  that  all  is 
set  to  rights  in  that  quarter.     Now  as  to  these 

informers,  may  the  devil  be  let  loose  to 

but,  hold  !  I  was  praying  most  fervently  in  my 
Inst  sheet,  and  I  must  not  so  soon  fall  a  swear- 
ing in  this. 

Alas  !  how  little  do  the  wantonly  or  idly  of- 
ficious think  what  mischief  they  do  by  their  ma- 
licious insinuations,  indirect  impertinence,  or 
thoughtless  blabbings.    What  a  difference  there 


is  in  intrinsic  worth,  candour,  benevolence,  ge- 
nerosity, kindness, — in  all  the  charities  and 
all  the  virtues,  between  one  class  of  human 
beings  and  another !  For  instance,  the  amiable 
circle  I  so  lately  mixed  with  in  the  hospitalle 
hall  of  Dunlop,  their  generous  hearts — their 
uncontaminated  dignified  minds — their  infc  rmed 
and  polished  understandings — what  a  contrast, 
when  comparvjd — if  such  comparing  were  not 
downright  sacrilege — with  the  soul  of  the  mis- 
creant who  can  deliberately  plot  the  destruction 
of  an  honest  man  that  never  offended  him,  and 
with  a  grin  of  satisfaction  see  the  unfortunate 
being,  his  faithful  wife,  and  prattling  innocents, 
turned  over  to  beggary  and  ruin ! 

Your  cup,  my  dear  Madam,  arrived  safe.  1 
had  two  worthy  fellows  dining  with  me  the 
other  day,  when  I,  with  great  formality,  pro- 
duced my  whigmeeleerie  cup,  and  told  them 
that  it  had  been  a  family-piece  among  the  de- 
scendants of  William  Wallace.  This  roused 
such  an  enthusiasm,  that  they  insisted  on  bum- 
pering the  punch  round  in  it ;  and  by  and  by, 
never  did  your  great  ancestor  lay  a  Suthron 
more  completely  to  rest,  than  for  a  time  did 
your  cup  my  two  friends.  Apropos,  this  is  the 
season  of  wishing.  My  God  bless  you,  my  dear 
friend,  and  bless  me,  the  humblest  and  sincerest 
of  your  friends,  by  granting  you  yet  many  re- 
turns of  the  season !  May  all  good  things  at- 
tend you  and  yours  wherever  they  are  scattered 
over  the  earth ! 

B.B 


ccxxvn. 

TO   MR.   WILLIAM   SMELLIE, 

PRINTER. 

[When  Burns  sends  his  warmest  wishes  to  Smellie,  niL 
prays  that  fortune  may  never  place  his  subsistence  a1  th« 
mercy  of  a  knave,  or  set  his  character  on  the  judgment 
of  a  fool,  he  had  his  political  enemies  probably  in  hii 
mind.] 

Dumfries,  22d  January,  1792. 
I  SIT  down,  my  dear  Sir,  to  introduce  aycung 
lady  to  you,  and  a  lady  in  the  first  ranks  of 
fashion  too.   What  a  task !  to  you — who  care  no 
more  for  the  herd  of  animals  called  young  la- 
dies, than  you  do  for  the  herd  of  animals  called 
[  young  gentlemen.     To  you — who  despise  and 
j  detest  the  groupings  and  combinations  of  fashion, 


442 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


RS  an  idiot  painter  that  seems  industrious  to 
place  staring  fools  and  unprincipled  knaves  in 
the  foreground  of  his  picture,  while  men  of 
sense  and  honesty  are  too  often  thrown  in  the 
dimmest  shades.  Mrs.  Riddel,  who  will  take 
this  letter  to  town  with  her,  and  send  it  to  you, 
is  a  character  that,  even  in  your  own  way,  as 
a  naturalist  and  a  philosopher,  would  be  an 
acquisition  to  your  acquaintance.  The  lady, 
too,  is  a  votary  to  the  muses ;  and  as  I  think 
myself  somewhat  of  a  judge  in  my  own  trade, 
I  assure  you  that  her  verses,  always  correct, 
and  often  elegant,  are  much  beyond  the  com- 
mon run  of  the  lady-poetesses  of  the  day.  She 
is  a  great  admirer  of  your  book  ;  and,  hearing 
me  say  that  I  was  acquainted  with  you,  she 
Jjegged  to  be  known  to  you,  as  she  is  just  going 
to  pay  her  first  visit  to  our  Caledonian  capital. 
I  told  her  that  her  best  way  was,  to  desire  her 
near  relation,  and  your  intimate  friend,  Craig- 
darroch,  to  have  you  at  his  house  while  she 
was  there  ;  and  lest  you  might  think  of  a  lively 
West  Indian  girl,  of  eighteen,  as  girls  of  eigh- 
teen too  often  deserve  to  be  thought  of,  I  should 
take  care  to  remove  that  prejudice.  To  be  im- 
partial, however,  in  appreciating  the  lady's 
merits,  she  has  one  unlucky  failing :  a  failing 
which  you  will  easily  discover,  as  she  seems 
rather  pleased  with  indulging  in  it;  and  a  fail- 
ing that  you  will  easily  pardon,  as  it  is  a  sin 
which  very  much  besets  yourself; — where  she 
dislikes,  or  despises,  she  is  apt  to  make  no  more 
a  secret  of  it,  than  where  she  esteems  and 
respects. 

I  will  not  present  you  with  the  unmeaning 
compliments  of  the  season,  but  I  will  send  you  my 
warmest  wishes  and  most  ardent  prayers,  that 
Fortune  may  never  throw  your  subsistence  to 
the  mercy  of  a  Knave,  or  set  your  character 
on  the  judgment  of  a  Fool  ;  but  that,  upright 
and  erect,  you  may  walk  to  an  honest  grave, 
where  men  of  letters  shall  say,  here  lies  a  man 
who  did  honour  to  science,  and  men  of  worth 
Bhall  say,  here  lies  a  man  who  did  honour  to 
human  nature.  R.  B. 


CCXXVIII. 

TO   MR.    W.    NICOL. 

[This  ironical  letter  was  in  answer  to  one  from  Nicol, 
•;initxining  counsel  and  reproof.] 

20<A  February,  1792. 
O  THOU,  wisest  among  the  wise,  meridian  blaze 


of  prudence,  full-moon  of  discretion,  and  chief 
of  many  counsellors !  How  infinitely  is  thy 
puddle-headed,  rattle-headed,  wrong-headed, 
round-headed  slave  indebted  to  thy  super-emi- 
nent  goodness,  that  from  the  luminous  path  of 
thy  own  right-lined  rectitude,  thou  lookest  be- 
nignly down  on  an  erring  wretch,  :f  whom  the 
zig-zag  wanderings  defy  all  the  powers  of  cal- 
culation, from  the  simple  copulation  of  units, 
up  to  the  hidden  mysteries  of  fluxions !  May 
one  feeble  ray  of  that  light  of  wisdom  which 
darts  from  thy  sensorium,  straight  as  the  arrow 
of  heaven,  and  bright  as  the  meteor  of  inspira- 
tion, may  it  be  my  portion,  so  that  I  may  be 
less  unworthy  of  the  face  and  favour  of  that 
father  of  proverbs  and  master  of  maxims,  that 
antipode  of  folly,  and  magnet  among  the  sages, 
the  wise  and  witty  Willie  Nicol !  Amen !  Amen ! 
Yea,  so  be  it ! 

For  me !  I  am  a  beast,  a  reptile,  and  know 
nothing !  From  the  cave  of  my  ignorance,  amid 
the  fogs  of  my  dulness,  and  pestilential  fumes 
of  my  political  heresies,  I  look  up  to  thee,  as 
doth  a  toad  through  the  iron-barred  lucerne  of 
a  pestiferous  dungeon,  to  the  cloudless  glory  of 
a  summer  sun !  Sorely  sighing  in  bitterness  of 
soul,  I  say,  when  shall  my  name  be  the  quota- 
tion of  the  wise,  and  my  countenance  be  the 
delight  of  the  godly,  like  the  illustrious  lord  of 
Laggan's  many  hills  ?  As  for  him,  his  works 
are  perfect :  never  did  the  pen  of  calumny  blur 
the  fair  page  of  his  reputation,  nor  the  bolt  of 
hatred  fly  at  his  dwelling. 

Thou  mirror  of  purity,  when  shall  the  elfine 
lamp  of  my  glimmerous  understanding,  purged 
from  sensual  appetites  and  gross  desires,  shine 
like  the  constellation  of  thy  intellectual  powers ! 
— As  for  thee,  thy  thoughts  are  pure,  and  thy 
lips  are  holy.  Never  did  the  unhallowed  breath 
of  the  powers  of  darkness,  and  the  pleasures  of 
darkness,  pollute  the  sacred  flame  of  thy  sky- 
descended  and  heaven-bound  desires:  never  did 
the  vapours  of  impurity  stain  the  unclouded 
serene  of  thy  cerulean  imagination.  0  that  like 
thine  were  the  tenor  of  my  life,  like  thine  the 
tenor  of  my  conversation  !  then  should  no  friend 
fear  for  my  strength,  no  enemy  rejoice  in  my 
weakness !  Then  should  I  lie  down  and  rise  up, 
and  none  to  make  me  afraid. — May  thy  pity 
and  thy  prayer  be  exercised  for,  0  thou  lamp 
of  wisdom  and  mirror  of  morality!  thy  devoted 
slave.  R.  B. 


OF   EOBEIIT    13UKNS. 


41?) 


CCXXIX. 

TO  FRANCIS  GROSE,  ESQ.,  F.S.A. 

•"Captain  Grose  was  introduced  to  Burns,  by  his  brother 
4.ntiquary,  of  Fria'  »  Carse  :  he  was  collecting  materials 
or  his  work  o^  t?^  t  Antiquities  of  Scotland.] 


Sl*. 


Dumfries^  1792. 


I  BELiAfE  among  all  our  Scots  Literati  you 
have  not  met  with  Professor  Dugald  Stewart, 
who  fills  the  moral  philosophy  chair  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh.  To  say  that  he  is  a  man 
of  the  first  parts,  and  what  is  more,  a  man  of 
the  first  worth,  to  a  gentleman  of  your  general 
acquaintance,  and  who  so  much  enjoys  the 
luxury  of  unencumbered  freedom  and  undis- 
turbed privacy,  is  not  perhaps  recommendation 
enough: — but  when  I  inform  you  that  Mr. 
Stewart's  principal  characteristic  is  your  fa- 
vourite feature ;  that  sterling  independence  of 
mind,  which,  though  every  man's  right,  so  few 
men  have  the  courage  to  claim,  and  fewer  still, 
the  magnanimity  to  support: — when  I  tell  you 
that,  unseduced  by  splendour,  and  undisgusted 
by  wretchedness,  he  appreciates  the  merits  of 
the  various  actors  in  the  great  drama  of  life, 
merely  as  they  perform  their  parts — in  short, 
he  is  a  man  after  your  own  heart,  and  I  comply 
with  his  earnest  request  in  letting  you  know 
that  he  wishes  above  all  things  to  meet  with 
you.  His  house,  Catrine,  is  within  less  than  a 
mile  of  Sorn  Castle,  which  you  proposed  visit- 
ing ;  or  if  you  could  transmit  him  the  enclosed, 
he  would  with  the  greatest  pleasure  meet  you 
anywhere  in  the  neighbourhood.  I  write  to 
Ayrshire  to  inform  Mr.  Stewart  that  I  have 
acquitted  myself  of  my  promise.  Should  your 
time  and  spirits  permit  your  meeting  with  Mr. 
Stewart,  'tis  well ;  if  not,  I  hope  you  will  for- 
give this  liberty,  and  I  have  at  least  an  oppor- 
tunity rf  assuring  you  with  what  truth  and 
Tjspect, 

I  am,  Sir, 

Your  great  admirer, 

And  very  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


ccxxx. 

TO  FRANCIS  GROSE,  ESQ.,  F.S.A. 

[This  letter,  interesting  to  nil  wJio  desire  to  see  how  a 
poet  works  beauty  and  regularity  out  of  a  vulgar  tradi- 
tion, was  first  printed  by  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  io  the 
«« Censura  Literaria."] 


Dumfries  ^  1792. 

Amono  the  many  witch  stories  I  have  heard, 
relating  to  Alloway  kirk,  I  distinctly  remembei 
only  two  or  three. 

Upon  a  stormy  night,  amid  whistling  squalla 
of  wind,  and  bitter  blasts  of  hail ;  in  short,  on 
such  a  night  as  the  devil  would  choose  to  take 
the  air  in ;  a  farmer  or  farmer's  servant  was  plod- 
ding and  plashing  homeward  with  his  plough- 
irons  on  his  shoulder,  having  been  getting  some 
repairs  on  them  at  a  neiorhbouring  smithy.  His 
way  lay  by  the  kirk  of  Alloway,  and  being  ra- 
ther on  the  anxious  look-out  in  approaching  a 
place  so  well  known  to  be  a  favourite  haunt  of 
the  devil  and  the  devil's  friends  and  emissaries, 
he  was  struck  aghast  by  discovering  through 
the  horrors  of  the  storm  and  stormy  night,  a 
light,  which  on  his  nearer  approach  plainly 
showed  itself  to  proceed  from  the  haunted 
edifice.  Whether  he  had  been  fortified  from 
above,  on  his  devout  supplication,  as  is  custo- 
mary with  people  when  they  suspect  the  imme- 
diate presence  of  Satan  ;  or  whether,  according 
to  another  custom,  he  had  got  courageously 
drunk  at  the  smithy,  I  will  not  pretend  to  deter- 
mine ;  but  so  it  was  that  he  ventured  to  go  up 
to,  nay,  into,  the  very  kirk.  As  luck  would  have 
it,  his  temerity  came  ofi"  unpunished. 

The  members  of  the  infernal  junto  were  all 
out  on  some  midnight  business  or  other,  and  he 
saw  nothing  but  a  kind  of  kettle  or  caldron,  de- 
pending from  the  roof,  over  the  fire,  simmering 
some  heads  of  unchristened  children,  limbs  of 
executed  malefactors,  &c.,  for  the  business  of 
the  night. — It  was  in  for  a  penny  in  for  a  pound, 
with  the  honest  ploughman :  so  without  cere- 
mony he  unhooked  the  caldron  from  oflF  the  fire, 
and  pouring  out  the  damnable  ingredients,  in- 
verted it  on  his  head,  and  carried  it  fairly  home, 
where  it  remained  long  in  the  family,  a  living 
evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  story. 

Another  story,  which  I  can  prove  to  be  equally 
authentic,  was  as  follows : 

On  a  market  day  in  the  town  of  Ayr,  a  farmer 
from  Carrick,  and  consequently  whose  way  lay 
by  the  very  gate  of  Alloway  kirk-yard,  in  order 
to  cross  the  river  Doon  at  the  old  bridge,  which 
is  about  two  or  three  hundred  yards  farther  on 
than  the  said  gate,  had  been  detained  by  his 
business,  till  by  the  time  he  reached  Alloway  it 
was  the  wizard  hour,  between  night  and  morn- 
ing. 

Though  he  was  terrified  with  a  blaze  stream 


444    . 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


Ing  from  the  kirk,  yet  it  is  a  well-known  fact 
that  to  turn  back  on  these  occasions  is  run- 
ning b^  far  the  greatest  risk  of  mischief,  he 
prudently  advanced  on  his  road.  When  he  had 
reached  the  gate  of  the  kirk-yard,  he  was  sur- 
prised and  entertained,  through  the  ribs  and 
arches  of  an  old  gothic  window,  which  still 
faces  the  highway,  to  see  a  dance  of  witches 
aieirily  footing  it  round  their  old  sooty  black- 
guard master,  who  was  keeping  them  all  alive 
with  the  power  of  his  bag-pipe.  The  farmer 
stopping  his  horse  to  observe  them  a  little,  could 
plainly  descry  the  faces  of  many  old  women  of 
his  acquaintance  and  neighbourhood.  How  the 
gentleman  was  dressed  tradition  does  not  say; 
but  that  the  ladies  were  all  in  their  smocks : 
and  one  of  them  happening  unluckily  to  have  a 
smock  which  was  considerably  too  short  to  an- 
swer all  the  purpose  of  that  piece  of  dress,  our 
farmer  was  so  tickled,  that  he  involuntarily  burst 
out,  with  a  loud  laugh,  *'  Weel  luppen,  Maggy 
wi'  the  short  sark  !"  and  recollecting  himself, 
instantly  spurred  his  horse  to  the  top  of  his 
speed.  I  need  not  mention  the  universally 
known  fact,  that  no  diabolical  power  can  pur- 
sue you  beyond  the  middle  of  a  running  stream. 
Lucky  it  was  for  the  poor  farmer  that  the  river 
Boon  was  so  near,  for  notwithstanding  the  speed 
of  his  horse,  which  was  a  good  one,  against  he 
reached  the  middle  of  the  arch  of  the  bridge, 
and  consequently  the  middle  of  the  stream,  the 
pursuing,  vengeful  hags,  were  so  close  at  his 
heels,  that  one  of  them  actually  sprung  to  seize 
him  ;  but  it  was  too  late,  nothing  was  on  her 
side  of  the  stream,  but  the  horse's  tail,  which 
immediately  gave  way  at  her  infernal  grip,  as 
if  blasted  by  a  stroke  of  lightning  ;  but  the  far- 
mer was  beyond  her  reach.  However,  the  un- 
sightly, tailless  condition  of  the  vigorous  steed 
was,  to  the  last  hour  of  the  noble  creature's  life, 
an  awful  warning  to  the  Carrick  farmers,  not  to 
stay  too  late  in  Ayr  markets. 

The  last  relation  I  shall  give,  though  equally 
trae.  is  not  so  well  identified  as  the  two  former, 
with  regard  to  the  scene ;  but  as  the  best  au- 
thorities give  it  for  Alloway,  I  shall  relate  it. 

On  a  summer's  evening,  about  the  time  that 
nature  puts  on  her  sables  to  mourn  the  expiry 
of  the  cheerful  day,  a  shepherd  boy,  belonging 
to  a  farmer  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of 
A-lloway  kirk,  had  just  folded  his  charge,  and 
was  returning  home.  As  he  passed  the  kirk,  in 
■.ie  adjoining  field,  he  fell  in  with  a  crew  of  men 


and  women,  who  were  busy  pulling  stems  of  thfl 
J  lant  Ragwort.  He  observed  that  as  each  per- 
son pulled  a  Ragwort,  he  or  she  got  astride  of  it, 
and  called  out,  "  Up  horsie !"  on  which  the  Rag- 
wort flew  oflf,  like  Pegasus,  through  the  air  with 
its  rider.  The  foolish  boy  likewise  pulled  hia 
Ragwort,  and  cried  with  the  rest,  "Up  horsie  !" 
and,  strange  to  tell,  away  he  flew  with  the  com- 
pany. The  first  stage  at  which  the  cavalcade 
stopt,  was  a  merchant's  wine-cellar  in  Bordeaux, 
where,  without  saying  by  your  leave,  they 
quafi^ed  away  at  the  best  the  cellar  could  aff'ord, 
until  the  morning,  foe  to  the  imps  and  works  of 
darkness,  threatened  to  throw  light  on  the  mat- 
ter, and  frightened  them  from  their  carousals. 

The  poor  shepherd  lad,  being  equally  a  stran- 
ger to  the  scene  and  the  liquor,  heedlessly  got 
himself  drunk;  and  when  the  rest  took  horse, 
he  fell  asleep,  and  was  found  so  next  day  by 
some  of  the  people  belonging  to  the  merchant. 
Somebody  that  understood  Scotch,  asking  him 
what  he  was,  he  said  such-a-one's  herd  in  Al- 
loway, and  by  some  means  or  other  getting  home 
again,  he  lived  long  to  tell  the  world  the  won- 
drous tale. 

I  am,  &c., 

R.  B. 


CCXXXI. 

TO   MR.  S.  CLARKE, 

EDINBURGH. 

[This  introduction  of  Clarke,  the  musician,  to  the 
M'Murdo'a  of  Drumlanrig,  brought  to  two  of  the  ladiei 
the  choicest  honours  of  the  muse.] 

July  1,  1792. 
Mr.  Burns  begs  leave  to  present  his  most 
respectful  compliments  to  Mr.  Clarke. — Mr.  B. 
some  time  ago  did  himself  the  honour  of  writing 
to  Mr.  C.  respecting  coming  out  to  the  coun- 
try, to  give  a  little  musical  instruction  in  a 
highly  respectable  family,  where  Mr.  C.  may 
have  his  own  terms,  and  may  be  as  happy  as 
indolence,  the  devil,  and  the  gout  will  permit 
him.  Mr.  B.  knows  well  how  Mr.  C.  is  en- 
gaged with  another  family ;  but  cannot  Mr.  C. 
find  two  or  three  weeks  to  spare  to  each  of  them? 
Mr.  B.  is  deeply  impressed  with,  and  awfully 
conscious  of,  the  high  importance  of  Mr.  C.'s 
time,  whether  in  the  winged  moments  of  sym- 
phonious  exhibition,  at  the  keys  of  harmony, 
while  listening  seraphs  cease  their  own  less  de- 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


445 


igbtful  strains ;  or  in  the  drowsy  arms  of  slum- 
b'rous  repose,  in  the  arms  of  his  dearly  beloved  j 
elbowchair,  where  the  frowsy,  but  potent  power  i 
of  indolence,  circumfuses  her  vapours  round, 
and  sheds  her  dews  on  the  head  of  her  darling  , 
son.     But  half  a  line  conveying  half  a  meaning 
from  Mr.  C.  would  make  Mr.  B.  the  happiest  of 
mortals. 


CCXXXII. 


TO    MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[To  enthusiastic  fits  of  admiration  for  the  young  and 
the  beautiful,  such  as  Burns  has  expressed  in  this  letter, 
he  loved  to  give  viray : — we  owe  some  of  his  best  songs 
to  these  sallies.] 

Annan  Water  Foot,  22d  August,  1792, 
Do  not  blame  me  for  it,  Madam ; — my  own 
conscience,  hackneyed  and  weather-beaten  as  it 
is  in  watching  and  reproving  my  vagaries,  fol- 
lies, indolence,  &c.,  has  continued  to  punish  me 

sufficiently. 

*  *  •jt  *  ^fr  4t  * 

Do  you  think  it  possible,  my  dear  and  honoured 
friend,  that  I  could  be  so  lost  to  gratitude  for 
many  favours ;  to  esteem  for  much  worth,  and 
to  the  honest,  kind,  pleasurable  tie  of,  now  old 
acquaintance,  and  I  hope  and  am  sure  of  pro- 
gressive, increasing  friendship — as  for  a  single 
day,  not  to  think  of  you — to  ask  the  Fates  what 
they  are  doing  and  about  to  do  with  my  much- 
loved  friend  and  her  wide-scattered  connexions, 
and  to  beg  of  them  to  be  as  kind  to  you  and 
yours  as  they  possibly  can  ? 

Apropos !  (though  how  it  is  apropos,  I  have 
not  leisure  to  explain,)  do  you  not  know  that  I 
am  almost  in  love  with  an  acquaintance  of 
yours? — Almost!  said  I— I  am  in  love,  souse  ! 
over  head  and  ears,  deep  as  the  most  unfathom- 
able abyss  of  the  boundless  ocean;  but  the  word 
Love,  owing  to  the  inter minghdoms  of  the  good 
and  the  bad,  the  pure  and  the  impure,  in  this 
world,  being  rrflher  an  equivocal  term  for  ex- 
pressing one's  sentiments  and  seH^ations,  I  must 
do  justice  to  the  sacred  purity  of  my  attachment. 
Know,  then,  that  the  heart-struck  awe ;  the 
distant  humble  approach;  the  delight  we  should 
have  in  gazing  upon  and  listening  to  a  messenger 
of  heaven,  appearing  in  all  the  unspotted  purity 
of  his  celestial  home,  among  the  coarse,  pol- 
luted, far  inferior  sons  of  men,  to  deliver  to  them 
tidings  that  make  theit  hearts  ewim  in  joy,  and 


their  imaginations  soar  in  transport — such,  st 
delighting  and  so  pure,  were  the  emotions  of 
my  soul  on  meeting  the  other  day  with  Miss 

Lesley  Baillie,  your  neighbour,  at  M .    Mr, 

B.  with  his  two  daughters,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
H.  of  G.  passing  through  Dumfries  a  few  days 
ago,  on  their  way  to  England,  did  me  the  honour 
of  calling  on  me ;  on  which  I  took  my  hf  rae 
(though  God  knows  I  could  ill  spare  the  time), 
and  accompanied  them  fourteen  or  fifteen  miles, 
and  dined  and  spent  the  day  with  them,  'Twas 
about  nine,  I  think,  when  I  left  them,  and 
riding  home,  I  composed  the  following  ballad, 
of  which  you  will  probably  think  you  have  a 
dear  bargain,  as  it  will  cost  you  another  groat 
of  postage.  You  must  know  that  there  is  an 
old  ballad  beginning  with — 

"My  bnnnie  Lizzie  Baillie 
I'll  rowe  tliee  in  my  plaidie,  &c." 

So  I  parodied  it  as  follows,  which  is  literally 
the  first  copy,  "  unanointed,  unanneal'd;"  ai 
Hamlet  says. — 

0  saw  ye  bonny  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border? 

She's  gane  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

So  much  for  ballads.  I  regret  that  you  are 
gone  to  the  east  country,  as  I  am  to  be  in  Ayr- 
shire in  about  a  fortnight.  This  world  of  ours, 
notwithstanding  it  has  many  good  things  in  it, 
yet  it  has  ever  had  this  curse,  that  two  or  three 
people,  who  would  be  the  happier  the  oftener 
they  met  together,  are,  almost  without  exception, 
always  so  placed  as  never  to  meet  but  once  or 
twice  a-year,  which,  considering  the  few  years 
of  a  man's  life,  is  a  very  great  "  evil  under  the 
sun,"  which  I  do  not  recollect  that  Solomon  has 
mentioned  in  his  catalogue  of  the  miseries  of 
man.  I  hope  and  believe  that  there  is  a  state 
of  existence  beyond  the  grave,  where  the  worthy 
of  this  life  will  renew  their  former  intimacies, 
with  this  endearing  addition,  that,  *•  we  meet 
to  part  no  more!" 


"  Tell  us,  ye  dead. 
Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret. 
What  'tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  ?" 

Blaik 

A  thousand  times  have  I  made  this  apostrophe 
to  the  departed  sons  of  men,  but  not  one  of 
them  has  ever  thought  fit  to  answer  the  question. 
"0  that  some  courteous  ghost  would  blab  it 
out!"  but  it  cannot  be;  you  and  I.  my  friend, 


446 


GENERAL   COKRESPONDENCE 


must  make  the  experiment  by  ourselves  and  for 
ourselves.  However,  I  am  so  convinced  that 
an  unshaken  faith  in  the  doctrines  of  religion 
is  not  only  necessary,  by  making  us  better  men, 
but  also  by  making  us  happier  men,  that  I  should 
take  every  care  ihat  your  little  godson,  and 
every  little  creatare  that  shall  call  me  father, 
shall  be  taught  them. 

So  ends  this  heterogeneous  letter,  written  at 
this  wild  place  of  the  world,  in  the  intervals  of 
my  labour  of  discharging  a  vessel  of  rum  from 
Antigua.  R.  B. 


CCXXXIII. 


TO   MR.   CUNNINGHAM. 

[Tliere  is  both  bitterness  and  humour  in  this  letter:  the 
poet  discourses  on  many  matters,  and  woman  is  among 
them — but  he  places  the  bottle  at  his  elbow  as  an  antidote 
ng.iinst  the  discourtesy  of  scandal.] 

^Dumfries,  10th  September,  1792. 

No  !  I  will  not  attempt  an  apology. — Amid  all 
my  hurry  of  business,  grinding  the  faces  of  the 
publican  and  the  sinner  on  the  merciless  wheels 
of  the  Excise ;  making  ballads,  and  then  drink- 
ing, and  singing  them  !  and,  over  and  above  all, 
the  correcting  the  press-work  of  two  different 
publications  ;  still,  still  I  might  have  stolen  five 
minutes  to  dedicate  to  one  of  the  first  of  my 
friends  and  fellow-creatures.  I  might  have  done 
as  I  do  at  present,  snatched  an  hour  near  "witch- 
ing time  of  night,"  and  scrawled  a  page  or  two. 
I  might  have  congratulated  my  friend  on  his 
marriage ;  or  I  might  have  thanked  the  Cale- 
donian archers  for  the  honour  they  have  done 
me  (though,  to  do  myself  justice,  I  intended  to 
have  done  both  in  rhyme,  else  I  had  done  both 
long  ere  now).  Well,  then,  here's  to  your  good 
health !  for  you  must  know,  I  have  set  a  nip- 
perkin  of  toddy  by  me,  just  by  way  of  spell,  to 
keep  away  the  meikle  horned  deil,  or  any  of  his 
subaltern  imps  who  may  be  on  their  nightly 
rounds. 

But  what  shall  I  write  to  you  ? — "  The  voice 
said  cry,"  and  I  said,  "what  shall  I  cry?"— 0, 
thou  spirit!  whatever  thou  art,  or  wherever 
thou  makest  thyself  visible  !  be  thou  a  bogle  by 
thn  eerie  side  of  an  auld  thorn,  in  the  dreary 
glen  through  which  the  herd-callan  maun  bicker 
in  his  gloamin  route  frae  the  faulde  !— Be  thou 
ft  brownie,  set,  at  dead  of  night,  to  thy  task  by 


the  blazing  ingle,  or  in  the  solitary  barn,  where 
the  repercussions  of  thy  iron  flail  half  affright 
thyself  as  thou  performest  the  work  of  twenty 
of  the  sons  of  men,  ere  the  cock-crowing  sum- 
mon thee  to  thy  ample  cog  of  substantial  brose — ' 
Be  thou  a  kelpie,  haunting  the  ford  or  ferry, 
in  the  starless  night,  mixing  thy  laughing  yell 
with  the  howling  of  the  storm  and  the  roaring 
of  the  flood,  as  thou  viewest  the  perils  and  mise- 
ries of  man  on  the  foundering  horse,  or  in  .the 
tumbling  boat! — or,  lastly,  be  thou  a  ghost, 
paying  thy  nocturnal  visits  to  the  hoary  ruins  of 
decayed  grandeur;  or  performing  thy  mystic 
rites  in  the  shadow  of  the  time-worn  church, 
while  the  moon  looks,  without  a  cloud,  on  the 
silent  ghastly  dwellings  of  the  dead  around  thee ! 
or  taking  thy  stand  by  the  bedside  of  the  villain, 
or  the  murderer,  pourtraying  on  his  dreaming 
fancy,  pictures,  dreadful  as  the  horrors  of  un- 
veiled hell,  and  terrible  as  the  wrath  of  incensed 
Deity ! — Come,  thou  spirit,  but  not  in  these 
horrid  forms  ;  come  with  the  milder,  gentle,  easy 
inspirations,  which  thou  breathest  round  the 
wig  of  a  prating  advocate,  or  the  tete  of  a  tea- 
sipping  gossip,  while  their  tongues  run  at  the 
light-horse  gallop  of  clish-maclaver  for  ever  and 
ever — come  and  assist  a  poor  devil  who  is  quite 
jaded  in  the  attempt  to  share  half  an  idea  among 
half  a  hundred  words ;  to  fill  up  four  quarto 
pages,  while  he  has  not  got  one  single  sentence 
of  recollection,  information,  or  remark  worth 
putting  pen  to  paper  for. 

I  feel,  I  feel  the  presence  of  supernatural  as- 
sistance !  circled  in  the  embrace  of  my  elbow- 
chair,  my  breast  labours,  like  the  bloated  Sybil 
on  her  three-footed  stool,  and  like  her,  too,  la- 
bours with  Nonsense.  —  Nonsense,  suspicious 
name !  Tutor,  friend,  and  finger-post  in  the 
mystic  mazes  of  law ;  the  cadaverous  paths  of 
physic;  and  particularly  in  the  sightless  soar- 
ings of  SCHOOL  DIVINITY,  who,  leaving  Common 
Sense  confounded  at  his  strength  of  pinion. 
Reason,  delirious  with  eyeing  his  giddy  flight ; 
and  Truth  creeping  back  into  tl^e  bottom  of  her 
well,  cursing  the  hour  that  ever  she  offered 
her  scorned  alliance  to  the  wizard  power  of 
Theologic  Vision — raves  abroad  on  all  the  winds. 
"On  earth  Discord!  a  gloomy  Heaven  above, 
opening  her  jealous  gat'es  to  the  nineteenth 
thousandth  part  of  the  tithe  of  mankind ;  and 
below,  an  inescapable  and  inexorable  hell,  ex- 
"anding  its  leviathan  jaws  for  the  vast  residue 
of  mortals:!!" — 0  doctrine!  comfortable  and 


OF   ROBERT  BURNS. 


447 


healing  to  the  weary,  wounded  soul  of  man ! 
Ye  sons  and  daughters  of  affliction,  ye  pauvres 
miserabh'8,  to  whom  day  brings  no  pleasure, 
and  night  yields  no  rest,  be  comforted!  "'Tis 
but  one  to  nineteen  hundred  thousand  that  your 
situation  will  mend  in  this  world;"  so,  alas, 
the  experience  of  the  poor  and  the  needy  too 
often  affirms ;  and  'tis  nineteen  hundred  thou- 
sand to  one,  by  the  dogmas  of***''^**** 
that  you  will  be  damned  eternally  in  the  world 
to  come ! 

But  of  all  nonsense,  religious  nonsense  is  the 
most  nonsensical ;  so  enough,  and  more  than 
enough  of  it.  Only,  by  the  by,  will  you  or  can 
you  tell  me,  my  dear  Cunningham,  why  a  sec- 
tarian turn  of  mind  has  always  a  tendency  to 
narrow  and  illiberalize  the  heart  ?  They  are 
orderly;  they  may  be  just;  nay,  I  have  known 
them  merciful :  but  still  your  children  of  sanc- 
tit}'^  move  among  their  fellow-creatures  with  a 
nostril-snuffing  putrescence,  and  a  foot-spurn- 
ing filth,  in  short,  with  a  conceited  dignity  that 
your  titled  *****^**  or  any  other  of 
your  Scottish  lordlings  of  seven  centuries  stand- 
ing, display  when  they  accidentally  mix  among 
the  many-aproned  sons  of  mechanical  life.  I 
remember,  in  my  plough-boy  days,  I  could  not 
conceive  it  possible  that  a  noble  lord  could  be  a 
fool,  or  a  godly  man  could  be  a  knave. — How 
ignorant  are  plough-boys ! — Nay,  I  have  since 
discovered  that  a  godly  woman  may  be  a  ***** ! 
— But  hold — Here's  t'ye  again — this  rum  is 
generous  Antigua,  so  a  very  unfit  menstruum 
for  scandal. 

Apropos,  how  do  you  like,  I  mean  really  like, 
the  married  life?  Ah,  my  friend!  matrimony 
is  quite  a  different  thing  from  what  your  love- 
sick youths  and  sighing  girls  take  it  to  be !  But 
marriage,  we  are  told,  is  appointed  by  God, 
and  I  shall  never  quarrel  with  any  of  his  insti- 
tutions I  am  a  husband  of  older  standing  than 
you  and  shall  give  you  my  ideas  of  the  conjugal 
state,  {en  passant ;  you  know  I  am  no  Latinist, 
is  not  conjugal  derived  from  jugvm,  a  yoke?) 
Well,  then,  the  scale  of  good  wifeship  I  divide 
into  ton  parts : — good-nature,  four ;  good  sense, 
two ;  wit,  one ;  personal  charms,  viz.  a  sweet 
face,  eloquent  eyes,  fine  limbs,  graceful  car- 
riage (I  would  add  a  fine  waist  too,  but  that  is 
80  soon  spoilt  you  know),  all  these,  one ;  as  for 
the  other  qualities  belonging  to,  or  attending 
on,  a  wife,  such  as  fortune,  connexions,  educa- 
tion (I  mean  education  extraordinary)  family, 


blood,  &c.,  divide  the  two  remaining  degrees 
among  them  as  you  please ;  only,  remember 
that  all  these  minor  properties  must  be  ex- 
pressed hy  fractions,  for  there  is  not  any  one 
of  them,  in  the  aforesaid  scale,  entitled  to  the 
dignity  of  an  integer. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  fancies  and  reveries — 
how  I  lately  met  with  Miss  Lesley  Baillie,  the 
most  beautiful,  elegant  woman  in  the  world- 
how  I  accompanied  her  and  her  father's  family 
fifteen  miles  on  their  journey,  out  of  pure  devo- 
tion, to  admire  the  loveliness  of  the  works  of 
God,  in  such  an  unequalled  display  of  them — 
how,  in  galloping  home  at  night,  I  made  a 
ballad  on  her,  of  which  these  two  stanzas  make 
a  part — 

Thou,  bonny  Lesley,  art  a  queen. 

Thy  subjects  we  before  thee; 
Thou,  bonny  Lesley,  art  divine, 

The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  very  deil  he  could  na  scath» 

Whatever  wad  belang  thee ! 
He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face 

And  say,  "I  canna  wrang  thee." 

— behold  all  these  things  are  written  in  the 
chronicles  of  my  imaginations,  and  shall  be  read 
by  thee,  my  dear  friend,  and  by  thy  beloved 
spouse,  my  other  dear  friend,  at  a  more  con- 
venient season. 

Now,  to  thee,  and  to  thy  before-designed 
bosom-comipamon,  be  given  the  precious  things 
brought  forth  by  the  sun,  and  the  precious 
things  brought  forth  by  the  moon,  and  the 
benignest  influences  of  the  stars,  and  the  living 
streams  which  flow  from  the  fountains  of  life, 
and  by  the  tree  of  life,  for  ever  and  ever! 
Amen! 


CCXXXIV. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[Georpe  Tliom8on,of  Edinburgh,  principal  clerk  toth« 
trustees  for  the  encouraging  the  manufactures  of  Scotland, 
projected  a  work,  entitled,  "A  select  Collection  of  Origi- 
nal Scotti  jh  Airs,  for  the  Voice,  to  which  are  added  intro 
ductory  and  concluding  Symphonies  and  Accomprinimentf 
for  the  Pinr.oforte  and  Violin,  by  Pleyel  and  Kozeluch, 
with  select  and  characteristic  Verses,  by  the  most  ad- 
mired Scottish  Poets."  To  Bums  he  applied  for  help  in 
the  verse  :  he  could  not  find  a  truer  poet,  nor  one  to  whoa 
such  a  work  was  more  congenial.l 


448 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


Dumfries,  IQth  Sept.  1792. 


Sir, 


I  HAVE  just  this  moment  got  your  letter.  As 
the  request  you  make  to  me  will  positively  add 
to  my  enjoyments  in  complying  with  it,  I  shall 
enter  into  your  undertaking  with  all  the  small 
portion  of  abilities  I  have,  strained  to  their  ut- 
most exertion  by  the  impulse  of  enthusiasm. 
Only,  don't  hurry  me — "  Deil  tak  the  hindmost" 
is  by  no  means  the  cri  de  guerre  of  my  muse. 
Will  you,  as  I  am  inferior  to  none  of  you  in  en- 
thusiastic attachment  to  the  poetry  and  music 
of  old  Caledonia,  and,  since  you  request  it,  have 
cheerfully  promised  my  mite  of  assistance — will 
you  let  me  have  a  list  of  your  airs  with  the  first 
line  of  the  printed  verses  you  intend  for  them, 
that  I  may  have  an  opportunity  of  suggesting 
any  alteration  that  may  occur  to  me  ?  You 
know  'tis  in  the  way  of  my  trade;  still  leaving 
you,  gentlemen,  the  undoubted  right  of  pub- 
lishers to  approve  or  reject,  at  your  pleasure, 
for  your  own  publication.  Apropos,  if  you  are 
for  English  verses,  there  is,  on  my  part,  an  end 
of  the  matter.  Whether  in  the  simplicity  of  the 
ballad,  or  the  pathos  of  the  song,  I  can  only 
hope  to  please  myself  in  being  allowed  at  least 
a  sprinkling  of  our  native  tongue.  English 
verses,  particularly  the  works  of  Scotsmen, 
that  have  merit,  are  certainly  very  eligible. 
"Tweedside!"  "Ah!  the  poor  shepherd's  mourn- 
ful fate  !"  "  Ah  !  Chloris,  could  I  now  but  sit," 
&c.,  you  cannot  mend;'  but  such  insipid  stuff 
as  "  To  Fanny  fair  could  I  impart,"  &c.,  usually 
set  to  "The  Mill,  Mill,  0!"  is  a  disgrace  to 
the  collections  in  which  it  has  already  appeared, 
and  would  doubly  disgrace  a  collection  that 
will  have  the  very  superior  merit  of  yours.  But 
more  of  this  in  the  further  prosecution  of  the 
business,  if  I  am  called  on  for  my  strictures 
and  amendments— I  say  amendments,  for  I  will 
not  alter  except  where  I  myself,  at  least,  think 
that  I  amend. 

As  to  any  remuneration,  you  may  think  my 
«:)ng3  either  above  or  below  price;  for  they 
should  absolutely  be  the  one  or  the  other.  In 
the  honest  enthusiasm  with  which  I  embark  in 
your  undertaking,  to  talk  of  money,  wages,  fee, 
hire,  <sc.,  would  be  downright  prostitution  of 
soul !  a  proof  of  each  of  the  songs  that  I  com- 


«  "  Tweedside"  is  by  Crawfurd  ;  «  Ah,  the  poor  shep- 
herd."&c.,  by  Hamilton,  of  Bangour;  "Ah!  Chloris," 
&o..,  by  Sir  Charles  Sedley— Burns  has  attributed  it  to 
*ir  Peter  Halket,  of  Pitferran. 


pose  or  amend,  I  shall  receive  as  a  favour.  In 
the  rustic  phrase  of  the  season,  "  Gude  speed 
the  wark!" 

I  am,  Sir, 
Your  very  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


ccxxxv. 

TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[One  of  the  daughters  of  Mrs.  Dunlop  was  married  to 
M.  Henri,  a  French  gentleman,  who  died  in  1700,  at  Lou- 
don Castle,  in  Ayrshire.  The  widow  went  with  her 
orphan  son  to  France,  and  lived  for  awhile  amid  the 
dangers  of  the  revolution.] 

Dumfries,  2ith  September,  1792. 

I  HAVE  this  moment,  my  dear  Madam,  yours 
of  the  twenty-third.  All  your  other  kind  re- 
proaches, your  news,  &c.,  are  out  of  my  head 
when  I  read  and  think  on  Mrs.  H 's  situ- 
ation. Good  God !  a  heart-wounded  helpless 
young  woman — in  a  strange,  foreign  land,  and 
that  land  convulsed  with  every  horror  that  can 
harrow  the  human  feelings — sick — looking,  long- 
ing for  a  comforter,  but  finding  none — a  mo- 
ther's feelings,  too: — but  it  is  too  much:  he 
who  wounded  (he  only  can)  may  He  heal ! 
•         *♦*•« 

I  wish  the  farmer  great  joy  of  his  new  ac- 
quisition to  his  family.  *  *  -x-  *  *  i  cannot  say 
that  I  give  him  joy  of  his  life  as  a  farmer.  'Tis, 
as  a  farmer  paying  a  dear,  unconscionable  rent, 
a  cursed  life  !  As  to  a  laird  farming  his  own 
property  ;  sowing  his  own  corn  in  hope  ;  and 
reaping  it,  in  spite  of  brittle  weather,  in  glad- 
ness ;  knowing  that  none  can  say  unto  him, 
'  what  dost  thou?' — fattening  his  herds  ;  shear- 
ing his  flocks  ;  rejoicing  at  Christmas  ;  and  be- 
getting sons   and   daughters,   until   he   be  the 

venerated,  gray-haired  leader  of  a  little  tribe 

'tis  a  heavenly  life  !  but  devil  take  the  life  of 
reaping  the  fruits  that  another  must  eat. 

Well,  your  kind  wishes  will  be  gratified,  as  to 
seeing  me  when  I  make  my  Ayrshire  visit.     I 

cannot  leave  Mrs.  B ,  until  her  nine  months* 

race  is  run,  which  may  perhaps  be  in  tnree  or 
four  weeks.  She,  too,  seems  determined  to 
make  me  the  patriarchal  leader  of  a  band. 
However,  if  Heaven  will  be  so  obliging  as  to 
let  me  have  them  in  the  proportion  of  three  boys 
to  one  girl,  I  shall  be  so  much  the  more  pleased. 
I  hope,  if  I  am  spared  with  them,  to  show  a 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


449 


Bet  of  hoys  that  will  do  honour  to  my  cares  and 
name;  but  I  am  not  equal  to  the  task  of  rearing 
girls.  Besides,  I  am  too  poor;  a  girl  should 
always  have  a  fortune.  Apropos,  your  little 
godson  is  thriving  charmingly,  but  is  a  very 
devil.  He,  though  two  years  younger,  has  com- 
pletely mastered  his  brother.  Robert  is  indeed 
the  mildest,  gentlest  creature  I  ever  saw.  He 
has  a  most  surprising  memory,  and  is  quite  the 
pride  of  his  schoolmaster. 

You  know  how  readily  we  get  into  prattle 
upon  a  subject  dear  to  our  heart:  you  can  ex- 
cuse it      God  bless  vou  and  yours  ! 

R.  B. 


CCXXXVI. 
TO  MRS.   DUNLOP. 

(This  letter  has  no  date  :  it  Is  supposed  to  have  been 
written  on  the  death  of  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Henri,  whose 
orphan  son,  deprived  of  the  protection  of  all  his  relations, 
was  preserved  by  the  affectionate  kindness  of  Mademoi- 
selle Susette,  one  of  the  family  domestics,  and  after  the 
Revolution  obtained  the  estate  of  his  blood  and  name.] 

I  HAD  been  from  home,  and  did  not  receive 
your  letter  until  my  return  the  other  day.  What 
shall  I  say  to  comfort  you,  my  much-valued, 
much-afflicted  friend  !  I  can  but  grieve  with 
you  ;  consolation  I  have  none  to  oiFer,  except 
that  which  religion  holds  out  to  the  children  of 
affliction — children  of  affliction! — how  just  the 
expression  !  and  like  every  other  family  they 
have  matters  among  them  which  they  hear,  see, 
and  feel  in  a  serious,  all-important  manner,  of 
which  the  world  has  not,  nor  cares  to  have,  any 
idea.  The  world  looks  indiflFerently  on,  nakes 
the  passing  remark,  and  proceeds  to  the  next 
novel  occurrence. 

Alas,  Madam !  who  would  wish  for  many 
years  ?  What  is  it  but  to  drag  existence  until 
our  joys  gradually  expire,  and  leave  us  in  a  night 
of  misery :  like  the  gloom  which  blots  out  the 
stars  one  by  one,  from  the  face  of  night,  and 
leaves  us,  without  a  raj  of  comfort,  in  the  howl- 
ing waste ! 

I  am  interrupted,  and  must  leave  off.  You 
shall  soon  hear  from  me  again. 

R.  B. 

1  Song  CLXXVII 


CCXXiVII. 

TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[Thomson  had  delivered  judgment  on  some  old  ScotHsl 
songs,  but  the  poet  murmured  against  George's  decree.} 

My  dear  Sir, 
Let  me  tell  you,  that  you  are  too  fastidious  in 
your  ideas  of  songs  and  ballads.  I  own  that 
your  criticisms  are  just;  the  songs  you  specify 
in  your  list  have,  all  but  one,  the  faults  you  re- 
mark in  them  :  but  who  shall  mend  the  matter? 
Who  shall  rise  up  and  say,  "Go  to !  I  will  make 
a  better?"  For  instance,  on  reading  over  "The 
Lea-rig,"  I  immediately  set  about  trying  my 
hand  on  it,  and,  after  all,  I  could  make  nothing 
more  of  it  than  the  following,  which,  Heaven 
knows,  is  poor  enough. 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star,  &c.* 

Your  observation  as  to  the  aptitude  of  Dr. 
Percy's  ballad  to  the  air,  "  Nannie,  0  !"  is  just. 
It  is,  besides,  perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  ballad 
in  the  English  language.  But  let  me  remark  to 
you,  that  in  the  sentiment  and  style  of  our  Scot 
tish  airs,  there  is  a  pastoral  simplicity,  a  some 
thing  that  one  may  call  the  Doric  style  and  dia- 
lect of  vocal  music,  to  which  a  dash  of  our  native 
tongue  and  manners  is  particularly,  nay  pecu- 
liarly, apposite.  For  this  reason,  and  upon  my 
honour,  for  this  reason  alone,  I  am  of  opinion 
(but,  as  I  told  you  before,  my  opinion  is  yours, 
freely  yours,  to  approve  or  reject,  as  you  please) 
that  my  ballad  of  "Nannie,  0!"  might  perhaps 
do  for  one  set  of  verses  to  the  tune.  Now  don't 
let  it  enter  into  your  head,  that  you  are  under 
any  necessity  of  taking  my  verses.  I  have 
long  ago  made  up  my  mind  as  to  my  own  repu- 
tation in  the  business  of  authorship,  and  have 
nothing  to  be  pleased  or  offended  at,  in  your 
adoption  or  rejection  of  my  verses.  Though 
you  should  reject  one  half  of  what  I  give  you, 
I  shall  be  pleased  with  your  adopting  the  other 
half,  and  shall  continue  to  serve  you  with  the 
same  assiduity. 

In  the  printed  copy  of  my  "Nannie,  0!"  tlie 
name  of  the  river  is  horribly  prosaic."  I  will 
alter  it : 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows. 

Girvan  is  the  name  of  the  river  that  suits  the 
idea  of  the  stanza  best,  but  Lugar  is  the  most 
agreeable  modulation  of  syllables. 


>  It  is  something  worse  in  the  Edinburgh  edition —  j  322 


Behind  yon  hilla  where  Stinchar  flows." — I'oems,  p. 


450 


GENERAL   C  ;)KiiESFONDENCE 


I  will  soon  give  you  a  great  many  more  re- 
marks on  this  business  ;  but  1  have  just  now  an 
opportunity  of  conveying  you  this  scrawl,  free 
of  postage,  an  expense  that  it  is  ill  able  to  pay : 
BO,  with  my  best  compliments  to  honest  Allan, 
Gude  be  wi'  ye,  &c. 

Friday  Niyht. 

Saturday  Morning. 

As  I  find  I  have  still  an  hour  to  spare  this 
morning  before  my  conveyance  goes  away,  I  will 
give  you  "Nannie,  0  !"  at  length. 

Your  remarks  on  "  Ewe-bughts,  Marion,"  are 
just ;  still  it  has  obtained  a  place  among  our 
more  classical  Scottish  songs ;  and  what  with 
many  beauties  in  its  composition,  and  more  pre- 
judices in  its  favour,  you  will  not  find  it  easy 
to  supplant  it. 

In  my  very  early  years,  when  I  was  thinking 
of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  I  took  the  follow- 
ing farewell  of  a  dear  girl.  It  is  quite  trifling, 
and  has  nothing  of  the  merits  of  "Ewe-bughts;" 
but  it  will  fill  up  this  page.  You  must  know 
that  all  my  earlier  love-songs  were  the  breath- 
ings of  ardent  passion,  and  though  it  might 
have  been  easy  in  after-times  to  have  given  them 
a  polish,  yet  that  polish,  to  me,  whose  they  were, 
and  who  perhaps  alone  cared  for  them,  would 
have  defaced  the  legend  of  my  heart,  which  was 
BO  faithfully  inscribed  on  them.  Their  uncouth 
Bimplicity  was,  as  they  say  of  wines,  their  race. 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary  ?  &c.  * 

"Gala  Water"  and  "Auld  Rob  Morris"  I 
think,  will  most  probably  be  the  next  subject 
of  my  musings.  However,  even  on  my  verses, 
•speak  out  your  criticisms  with  equal  frankness. 
My  wish  is  not  to  stand  aloof,  the  uncomplying 
bigot  of  opiniutrete,  but  cordially  to  join  issue 
with  you  in  the  furtherance  of  the  work. 

R.  B. 


CCXXXVIIT. 

TO   MR.   THOMSON. 

fThe  poet  loved  to  describe  the  influence  which  the 
Ciiarms  of  Miss  Lesley  Baillie  exercised  over  his  imagi- 
tiaXioa.., 

November  Sth,  1792. 
If  you  mean,  my  dear  Sir,  that  all  the  songs 
in  your  collection  shall  be  poetry  of  the  first 
merit,  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  more  difficulty 


Song  CLXXIX.  2  Song  CLXXX . 

3  Song  CLXXXI. 


in  the  undertaking  than  you  are  aware  of. 
There  is  a  peculiar  rhythmus  in  many  of  our 
airs,  and  a  necessity  of  adapting  syllables  to  the 
emphasis,  or  what  I  would  call  the  feature-notes 
of  the  tune,  that  cramp  the  poet,  and  lay  him 
under  almost  insuperable  difficulties.  For  in- 
stance, in  the  air,  "My  wife's  a  wanton  wee 
thing,"  if  a  few  lines  smooth  and  pretty  can  be 
adapted  to  it,  it  is  all  you  can  expect.  The  fol- 
lowing were  made  extempore  to  it ;  and  though 
on  further  study  I  might  give  you  something 
more  profound,  yet  it  might  not  suit  the  light- 
horse  gallop  of  the  air  so  well  as  this  random 
clink : — 

My  wife's  a  winsome  wee  thing,  Slc.^ 

I  have  just  been  looking  over  the  "  Collier's 
bonny  dochter  ;"  and  if  the  following  rhapsody, 
which  I  composed  the  other  day,  on  a  charming 
Ayrshire  girl.  Miss  Lesley  Baillie,  as  she  passed 
through  this  place  to  England,  will  suit  your 
taste  better  than  the  "Collier  Lassie,"  fall  on 
and  welcome : — 

0,  saw  ye  bonny  Lesley  ?  &c.'' 

I  have  hitherto  deferred  the  sublimer,  more 
pathetic  airs,  until  more  leisure,  as  they  will 
take,  and  deserve,  a  greater  efi"ort.  However, 
they  are  all  put  into  your  hands,  as  clay  into 
the  hands  of  the  potter,  to  make  one  vessel  tc 
honour,  and  another  to  dishonour.   Farewell,  &c 

R.  B. 


CCXXXIX. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  story  of  Mary  Campbell's  love  is  related  m  tte 
notes  on  the  songs  which  the  poet  wrote  in  her  honour. 
Thomson  says,  in  his  answer,  «'  I  have  heard  the  sad 
story  of  your  Mary  j  you  always  seem  inspired  when  you 
write  of  her."] 

\4ih  November,  1792. 
My  dear  Sir, 
I  AGREE  with  you  that  the  song,  "  Katherine 
Ogie,"  is  very  poor  stuflF,  and  unworthy,  alto- 
gether unworthy  of  so  beautiful  an  air.  I  tried 
to  mend  it ;  but  the  awkward  sound,  Ogie,  re- 
curring so  often  in  the  rhyme,  spoils  every  at- 
tempt at  introducing  sentiment  into  the  piece. 
The  foregoing  song*  pleases  myself;  I  think  it 


<  Ye  flanks  and  braes  and  streams  around 
Tne  castle  o'  Montgomery. 

Song  CLXXXII. 


OF   KOBEKT   BURNS. 


45i 


»  in  my  happiest  manner :  you  will  see  at  first 
glance  that  it  suits  the  air.  The  subject  of  the 
song  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  passages  of 
my  youthf  il  days,  and  1  own  that  I  should  be 
mu5h  flattered  to  see  the  verses  set  to  an  air 
which  would  ensure  celebrity.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  'tis  the  still  glowing  prejudice  of  my  heart 
that  throws  a  borrowed  lustre  over  the  merits 
of  the  composition. 

I  have  partly  taken  your  idea  of  **  Auld  P^ob 
Morris."  I  have  adopted  the  two  first  verses, 
and  am  going  on  with  the  song  on  a  new  plan, 
which  promises  pretty  well.  I  take  up  one  or 
another,  just  as  the  bee  of  the  moment  buzzes 
in  my  bonnet-lug ;  and  do  you,  sans  ceremonie, 
make  what  use  you  choose  of  the  productions. 
Adieu,  &c. 

R.  B. 


CCXL. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  poet  approved  of  several  emendations  proposed 
by  Thomson,  whose  wish  was  to  make  the  words  flow 
more  readily  with  the  music  :  he  refused,  however,  to 
adopt  others,  where  he  thought  too  much  of  the  sense  was 
sacrificed.] 

Dumfries,  1st  December,  1792. 
Your  alterations  of  my  "Nannie,  0!"  are 
perfectly  right.  So  are  those  of  "  My  wife's  a 
winsome  wee  thing."  Your  alteration  of  the 
second  stanza  is  a  positive  improvement.  Now, 
my  dear  Sir,  with  the  freedom  which  character- 
izes our  correspondence,  I  must  not,  cannot  alter 
"Bonnie  Lesley."  You  are  right;  the  word 
*•  Alexander"  makes  the  line  a  little  uncouth, 
but  I  think  the  thought  is  pretty.  Of  Alexan- 
der, beyond  all  other  heroes,  it  may  be  said,  in 
the  sublime  language  of  Scripture,  that  "  he 
went  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer." 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  never  made  anither.         (Such  a  person  as 
she  is.) 

This  Is,  in  my  opinion,  more  poetical  than 
"Ne'er  made  sic  anither."  However,  it  is  im- 
material: make  it  either  way.  "Caledonie," 
I  agree  with  you,  is  not  so  good  a  word  as  could 
be  wished,  though  it  is  sanctioned  in  three  or 
four  instances  by  Allan  Ramsay  ;  but  I  cannot 
help  it.  In  short,  that  species  of  stanza  is  the 
most  difficult  that  I  have  ever  tried. 

R.  B. 


CCXLI. 

TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

[Duncan  Gray,  which  this  letter  contained,  became  a 
favourite  as  soon  as  it  was  published,  and  the  same  may 
be  said  of  Auld  Rob  Morris.] 

4th  December,  1792. 
The  foregoing  ["Auld  Rob  Morris,"  and 
"Duncan  Gray,"']  I  submit,  my  dear  Sir,  to 
your  better  judgment.  Acquit  them  or  con- 
demn them,  as  seemeth  good  in  your  sight. 
"  Duncan  Gray"  is  that  kind  of  light-horse  gal- 
lop of  an  air,  which  precludes  sentiment.  The 
ludicrous  is  its  ruling  feature. 

R.  B. 


CCXLH. 
TO  MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[Burns  often  discourses  with  Mrs.  Dunlop  on  poetry 
and  poets  :  the  dramas*of  Thomson,  to  which  he  alludes, 
are  stiff,  cold  compositions.] 

Dumfries,  6th  December,  1792. 

I  SHALL  be  in  Ayrshire,  I  think,  next  week; 
and,  if  at  all  possible,  I  shall  certainly,  my 
much-esteemed  friend,  have  the  pleasure  of 
visiting  at  Dunlop-house. 

Alas,  Madam !  how  seldom  do  we  meet  in  this 
world,  that  we  have  reason  to  congratulate  our- 
selves on  accessions  of  happiness !  I  have  not 
passed  half  the  ordinary  term  of  an  old  man's 
life,  and  yet  I  scarcely  look  over  the  obituary 
of  a  newspaper,  that  I  do  not  see  some  names 
that  I  have  known,  and  which  I,  and  other 
acquaintances,  little  thought  to  meet  with  there 
so  soon.  Every  other  instance  of  the  mortality 
of  our  kind,  makes  us  cast  an  anxious  look  into 
the  dreadful  abyss  of  uncertainty,  and  shudder 
with  apprehension  for  our  own  fate.  But  of 
how  different  an  importance  are  the  lives  of 
diflFerent  individuals  ?  Nay,  of  what  importance 
is  one  period  of  the  same  life,  more  than  ano- 
ther ?  A  few  years  ago,  I  could  have  laid  down 
in  the  dust,  "  careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morn- 
ing ;"  and  now  not  a  few,  and  these  most  help- 
less individuals,  would,  on  losing  me  and  my 
exertions,  lose  both  their  "staflF  and  shield."  By 
the  way,  these  helpless  ones  have  lately  got 

an  addition  ;  Mrs.  B having  given  me  a 

fine  girl  since  I  wrote  you.     There  is  a  charm- 

»  Songs  CLXXXIII  and  CLXXXrv 


452 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


mg  passage  in  Thomson's  *•  Edward  and  Eleo- 
nora:" 

'«  The  valiant  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer? 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes?"  &c. 

As  I  am  got  in  the  way  of  quotations,  I  shall 
give  you  another  from  the  same  piece,  pecu- 
liarly, alas  !  too  peculiarly  apposite,  my  dear 
Madam,  to  your  present  frame  of  mind  : 

"  Who  so  unworthy  but  may  proudly  deck  hira 
With  his  fair-weather  virtue,  that  exults 
Glad  o'er  the  summer  main !  the  tempest  comes, 
The  rough  winds  rage  aloud  ;  WTien  from  the  helm, 
This  virtue  shrinks,  and  in  a  corner  lies 
Lamenting — Heavens  !  if  privileged  from  trial. 
How  cheap  a  thing  were  virtue  ?" 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  heard  you  men- 
tion Thomson's  dramas.  I  pick  up  favourite 
quotations,  and  store  them  in  my  mind  as  ready 
armour,  offensive  or  defensive,  amid  the  struggle' 
of  this  turbulent  existence.  Of  these  is  one,  a 
very  favourite  one,  from  his  "Alfred:" 

"Attach  thee  firmly  to  the  virtuous  deeds 
And  offices  of  life  ;  to  life  itself, 
With  all  its  vain  and  transient  joys,  sit  loose." 

Probably  I  have  quoted  some  of  these  to  you 
formerly,  as  indeed  when  I  write  from  the  heart, 
I  am  apt  to  be  guilty  of  such  repetitions.  The 
compass  of  the  heart,  in  the  musical  style  of 
expression,  is  much  more  bounded  than  that  of 
the  imagination  ;  so  the  notes  of  the  former  are 
extremely  apt  to  run  into  one  another ;  but  in 
return- for  the  paucity  of  its  compass,  its  few 
notes  are  much  more  sweet.  I  must  still  give 
you  another  quotation,  which  I  am  almost  sure 
I  have  given  you  before,  but  I  cannot  resist  the 
temptation.  The  subject  is  religion — speaking 
of  its  importance  to  mankind,  the  author  says, 
"  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning  bright." 

I  see  you  are  in  for  double  postage,  so  I  shall 
e'en  scribble  out  t'other  sheet.  We,  in  this 
country  here,  have  many  alarms  of  the  reform- 
ing, or  rather  the  republican  spirit,  of  your 
part  of  the  kingdom.  Indeed  we  are  a  good 
deal  in  commotion  ourselves.  For  me,  I  am  a 
placeman,  you  know;  a  very  humble  one  in- 
deed, Heaven  knows,  but  still  so  much  as  to  gag 
mc.  What  my  private  sentiments  are,  you  will 
find  out  without  an  interpreter. 

****** 

I  have  taken  up  the  subject,  and  the  other 
-day,  for  a  pretty  actress's  benefit  night,  I  wrote 
an  address,  which  I  will  give  on  the  other  page, 
called  "  The  rights  of  woman :" 

"While  Europe's  eye  is  fixed  on  mighty  things." 


I  shall  have  the  honour  of  receiving  your  criti 
cisms  in  person  at  Dunlop.  R.  B. 


CCXLIII. 
TO   R.    GRAHAM,    ESQ., 

FINTKAT. 

[Graham  stood  by  the  bard  in  the  hour  of  peril  recorded 
in  this  letter  :  and  the  Board  of  Excise  had  the  generoaitj 
to  permit  him  to  eat  its  "  bitter  bread"  for  the  remajadei 
of  his  life.] 

December,  1792. 
Sir, 

I  HAVE  been  surprised,  confounded,  and  dis- 
tracted by  Mr.  Mitchell,  the  collector,  telling 
me  that  he  has  received  an  order  from  your 
Board  to  inquire  into  my  political  conduct,  and 
blaming  me  as  a  person  disaffected  to  govern- 
ment. 

Sir,  you  are  a  husband — and  a  father. — You 
know  what  you  would  feel,  to  see  the  much- 
loved  wife  of  your  bosom,  and  your  helpless, 
prattling  little  ones,  turned  adrift  into  the  world, 
degraded  and  disgraced  from  a  situation  in  which 
they  had  been  respectable  and  respected,  and 
left  almost  without  the  necessary  support  of  a 
miserable  existence.  Alas,  Sir  !  must  I  think 
that  such,  soon,  will  be  my  lot !  and  from  the 
d-mned,  dark  insinuations  of  hellish,  ground- 
less envy  too !  I  believe,  Sir,  I  may  aver  it,  and 
in  the  sight  of  Omniscience,  that  I  would  not 
tell  a  deliberate  falsehood,  no,  not  though  even 
worse  horrors,  if  worse  can  be,  than  those  I 
have  mentioned,  hung  over  my  head  ;  and  I  say, 
that  the  allegation,  whatever  villain  has  made 
it,  is  a  lie !  To  the  Britsh  constitution  on  Revo- 
lution principles,  next  after  my  God,  I  am  most 
devoutly  attached  ;  you.  Sir,  have  been  much 
and  generously  my  friend. — Heaven  knows  how 
warmly  I  have  felt  the  obligation,  and  how 
gratefully  I  have  thanked  you. — Fortune,  Sir, 
has  made  you  powerful,  and  me  impotent ;  haa 
given  you  patronage,  and  me  dependence. — 1 
would  not  for  my  single  self,  call  on  your  huma- 
nity ;  were  such  my  insular,  unconnected  situ- 
ation, I  would  despise  the  tear  that  now  swells 
in  my  eye — I  could  brave  misfortune,  I  could 
face  ruin ;  for  at  the  worst,  "  Death's  thousand 
doors  stand  open  ;"  but,  good  God  !  the  tender 
concerns  that  I  have  mentioned,  the  claims  and 
ties  that  I  see  at  this  moment,  and  feel  around 
me,  how  they  unnerve  courage,  and  wither  ri'so 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


453 


lution !  To  your  patronage,  as  a  man  of  some 
genius,  you  have  allowed  me  a  claim  ;  and  your 
esteem,  as  an.  honest  man,  I  know  is  my  due  : 
to  these,  Sir,  permit  me  to  appeal ;  by  these 
may  I  adjure  you  to  save  me  from  that  misery 
which  threatens  to  overwhelm  me,  and  which, 
with  my  latest  breath  I  will  say  it,  I  have  not 
deserved.  R.  B. 


CCXLIV. 
TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[Burns  was  ordered,  he  says,  to  mind  his  duties  in  the 
Excise,  and  to  hold  his  tongue  about  politics — the  latter 
part  of  tlie  injunction  was  hard  to  obey,  for  at  that  time 
politics  were  in  every  mouth.] 

Dumfries,  Zlst  December,  1792. 
Dear  Madam, 

A  HURRY  of  business,  thrown  in  heaps  by  my 
absence,  has  until  now  prevented  my  returning 
my  grateful  acknowledgments  to  the  good  family 
of  Dunlop,  and  you  in  particular,  for  that 
hospitable  kindness  which  rendered  the  four 
days  I  spent  under  that  genial  roof,  four  of  the 
pleasantest  I  ever  enjoyed. — Alas,  my  dearest 
friend !  how  few  and  fleeting  are  those  things 
we  call  pleasures!  on  my  road  so  Ayrshire,  I 
epent  a  night  with  a  friend  whom  I  much 
valued ;  a  man  whose  days  promised  to  be 
many ;  and  on  Saturday  last  we  laid  him  in  the 
dust! 

Jan.  2,  1793. 

I  HAVE  just  received  yours  of  the  30th,  and 
feel  much  for  your  situation.  However,  I  heartily 
rejoice  in  your  prospect  of  recovery  from  that 
vile  jaundice.  As  to  myself,  I  am  better,  though 
not  quite  free  of  my  complaint. — You  must  not 
think,  as  you  seem  to  insinuate,  that  in  my 
way  of  life  I  want  exercise.  Of  that  I  have 
enough ;  but  occasional  hard  drinking  is  the 
devil  to  me.  Against  this  1  have  again  and 
again  bent  my  resolution,  and  have  greatly  suc- 
ceeded. Taverns  I  have  totally  abandoned :  it 
is  the  private  parties  in  the  family  way,  among 
the  hard-drinking  gentlemen  of  this  country, 
that  do  me  the  mischief — but  even  this  I  have 
more  than  half  given  over. 

Mr.  Corbet  can  be  of  little  service  to  me  at 
present ;  at  least  I  should  be  shy  of  applying. 
I  cannot  possibly  be  settled  as  a  supervisor,  for 
leveral  years.  I  must  wait  the  rotation  of  the 
list,  au  1  there  are  twenty  niimes  before  mine. 


I  might  indeed  get  a  job  of  officiating,  where  a 
settled  supervisor  was  ill,  or  aged;  but  that 
hauls  me  from  my  family,  as  I  could  not  remove 
them  on  such  an  uncertainty.  Besides,  some 
envious,  malicious  devil,  has  raised  a  little  demm 
on  my  political  principles,  and  I  wish  to  let  that 
matter  settle  before  I  offer  myself  too  much  in 
the  eye  of  my  supervisors.  I  have  set,  hence- 
forth, a  seal  on  my  lips,  as  to  these  unlucky  poli- 
tics; but  to  you  I  must  breathe  my  sentiments.  In 
this,  as  in  everything  else,  I  shall  show  the  un- 
disguised emotions  of  my  soul.  War  I  depre- 
cate :  misery  and  ruin  to  thousands  are  in  the 
blast  that  announces  the  destructive  demon. 

R.  B 


CXLV. 

TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

[The  soi^s  to  which  the  poet  alludes  were  "  Poortith 
Cauld,"  and  "  Galla  Water."] 

Jan.  1793. 

Many  returns  of  the  season  to  you,  my  dear 
Sir.  How  comes  on  your  publication  ? — will 
these  two  foregoing  [Songs  clxxxv.  and 
CLXxxvi.]  be  of  any  service  to  you?  I  should 
like  to  know  what  songs  you  print  to  each  tune, 
besides  the  verses  to  which  it  is  set.  In  short,  I 
would  wish  to  give  you  my  opinion  on  all  the 
poetry  you  publish.  You  know  it  is  my  trade, 
and  a  man  in  the  way  of  his  trade  may  suggest 
useful  hints  that  escape  men  of  much  superior 
parts  and  endowments  in  other  things. 

If  you  meet  with  my  dear  and  much-valued 
Cunningham,  greet  him,  in  my  name,  with  the 
compliments  of  the  season. 

Yours,  &c., 

R.  B. 


CCXLVI. 


TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

[ThoiTBon  explained  more  fully  than  at  first  the  p'»a  of 
his  publication,  and  stated  that  Dr.  Beattie  had  pn  .Tiseo 
an  essny  on  Scottish  music,  by  way  of  an  iiitrodae:jon  to 
the  work.] 

2^th  Janiiary,  1793. 
I  approve  greatly,  my  dear  Sir,  of  your  plans 
Dr.  Beattie's  essay  will,  of  itself,  be  a  treasure. 
On  my  part  I  mean  to  draw  up  an  appendix  tc 
the  Doctor's  essay,  containing  my  stock  of  anec- 
dotes, &o.,  of  our  Scots  songs.     All  the  late  Mr 


454 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


Tytler's  anecdotes  I  have  by  me,  taken  down  in 
the  course  of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  from 
his  own  mouth.  I  am  such  an  enthusiast,  that 
in  the  course  of  my  several  peregrinations 
through  Scotland,  I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the 
individual  spot  from  which  every  song  took  its 
rise,  "Lochaber"  and  the  "  Braes  of  Ballenden" 
excepted.  So  far  as  the  locality,  either  from 
the  title  of  the  air,  or  the  tenor  of  the  song, 
could  be  ascertained,  I  have  paid  my  devotions 
at  the  particular  shrine  of  every  Scots  muse. 

I  do  not  doubt  but  you  might  make  a  very 
valuable  c  )llection  of  Jacobite  songs ;  but  would 
it  give  no  offence  ?  In  the  meantime,  do  not 
you  think  that  some  of  them,  particularly  ♦'  The 
bow's  tail  to  Geordie,"  as  an  air,  with  other 
words,  might  be  well  worth  a  place  in  your  col- 

ection  of  lively  songs  ? 

If  it  were  possible  to  procure  songs  of  merit,  it 
would  be  proper  to  have  one  set  of  Scots  words 
to  every  air,  and  that  the  set  of  words  to  which 
the  notes  ought  to  be  set.  There  is  a  nav'icte, 
a  pastoral  simplicity,  in  a  slight  intermixture 
of  Scots  words  and  phraseology,  which  is  more 
in  unison  (at  least  to  my  taste,  and,  I  will  add, 
to  every  genuine  Caledonian  taste)  with  the 
simple  pathos,  or  rustic  sprightliness  of  our 
native  music,  than  any  English  verses  what- 
ever. 

The  very  name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  an  acquisi- 
tion to  your  work.  His  "  Gregory"  is  beautiful. 
I  have  tried  to  give  you  a  set  of  stanzas  in  Scots, 
on  the  same  subject,  which  are  at  your  service. 
Not  that  I  intend  to  enter  the  lists  with  Peter 
— that  would  be  presumption  indeed.  My  song, 
though  much  inferior  in  poetic  merit,  has,  I 
Ihink,  more  of  the  ballad  simplicity  in  it. 

[Here  follows  "  Lord  Gregory."    Song  CLXXXVII.] 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to  the  ho- 
nourable gentleman  who  favoured  me  with  a 
postscript  in  your  last.  He  shall  hear  from  me 
and  receive  his  MSS.  soon. 

Yours, 

R.  B. 


CCXLVII. 

TO   MR.    CUNNINGHAM. 

[The  seal,  with  the  coat-of-arms  which  the  poet  in- 
»ented,  is  still  in  the  family,  and  regarded  as  a  relique,] 

8c?  March,  1793. 
Since  I  wrote  to  you  the  last  lugubrious  sheet, 
I  have  not  had  time  to  write  you  further.  When 


I  say  that  I  had  not  time,  that  as  usual  means, 
that  the  three  demons,  indolence,  business,  and 
ennui,  have  so  completely  shared  my  houra 
among  them,  as  not  to  leave  me  a  five  minutes* 
fragment  to  take  up  a  pen  in. 

Thank  heaven,  I  feel  my  spirits  buoying  up- 
wards with  the  renovating  year.  Now  I  shall 
in  good  earnest  take  up  Thomson's  songs.  I 
dare  say  he  thinks  I  have  used  him  unkindly, 
and  I  must  own  with  too  much  appearance  of 
truth.  Apropos,  do  you  know  the  much  admired 
old  Highland  air  called  "The  Sutor's  Dochter?" 
It  is  a  first-rate  favourite  of  mine,  and  I  have 
written  what  I  reckon  one  of  my  best  songs  to 
it.  I  will  send  it  to  you  as  it  was  sung  with 
great  applause  in  some  fashionable  circles  by 
Major  Roberston,  of  Lude,  who  was  here  with 
his  corps. 

*  *  *  -X-  *  -Sfr 

There  is  one  commission  that  I  must  trouble 
you  with.  I  lately  lost  a  valuable  seal,  a  pre- 
sent from  a  departed  friend  which  vexes  me 
much. 

I  have  gotten  one  of  your  Highland  pebbles, 
which  I  fancy  would  make  a  very  decent  one  ; 
and  I  want  to  cut  my  armorial  bearing  on  it ; 
will  you  be  so  obliging  as  inquire  what  will  be 
the  expense  of  such  a  business  ?  I  do  not  know 
that  my  name  is  matriculated,  as  the  heralds 
call  it,  at  all ;  but  I  have  invented  arms  for  my- 
self, so  you  know  I  shall  be  chief  of  the  name; 
and,  by  courtesy  of  Scotland,  will  likewise  be 
entitled  to  supporters.  These,  however,  I  do 
not  intend  having  on  my  seal.  I  am  a  bit  of  a 
herald,  and  shall  give  you,  secundum  artem,  mj 
arms.  On  a  field,  azure,  a  holly-bush,  seeded, 
proper,  in  base;  a  shepherd's  pipe  and  crook, 
saltier-wise,  also  proper  in  chief.  On  a  wreath 
of  the  colours,  a  wood-lark  perching  on  a  sprig  of 
bay-tree,  proper,  for  crest.  Two  mottos  ;  round 
the  top  of  the  crest,  Wood-notes  wild:  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  shield,  in  the  usual  place.  Better  a 
wee  bush  than  nae  bield.  By  the  shepherd's  pipe 
and  crook  I  do  not  mean  the  nonsense  of  paint- 
ers of  Arcadia,  but  a  stock  and  horn,  and  a  club, 
such  as  you  see  at  the  head  of  Allan  Ramsay, 
in  Allan's  quarto  edition  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd 
By  the  bye,  do  you  know  Allan  ?  He  must  be  a 
man  of  very  great  genius — Why  is  he  not  more 
known? — Has  he  no  patrons  ?  or  do  "Poverty's 
cold  wind  and  crushing  rain  beat  keen  and 
heayy"  on  him?  I  once,  and  but  once,  got  a 
glance  of  that  noble  edition  of  the  noblest  pas« 
toral  in  the  world ;  and  dear  as  it  was,  I  meaa 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


45d 


dear  as  to  my  pocket,  I  would  have  bought  it ; 
but  I  was  told  that  it  was  printed  and  engraved 
for  subscribers  only.  He  is  the  only  artist  who 
has  hit  gtnuine  pastoral  costume.  What,  my 
dear  Cunuingham,  is  there  in  riches,  that  they 
narrow  and  harden  the  heart  so  ?  I  think,  that 
were  I  as  rich  as  the  sun,  I  should  be  as  gene- 
rous as  the  day ;  but  as  I  have  no  reason  to 
imagine  my  soul  a  nobler  one  than  any  other 
man's,  I  must  conclude  that  wealth  imparts  a 
bird-lime  quality  to  the  possessor,  at  which  the 
man,  in  his  native  poverty,  would  have  revolted. 
What  has  led  me  to  this,  is  the  idea  of  such 
merit  as  Mr.  Allan  possesses,  and  such  riches 
as  a  nabob  or  government  contractor  possesses, 
and  why  they  do  not  form  a  mutual  league. 
Let  wealth  shelter  and  cherish  unprotected 
merit,  and  the  gratitude  and  celebrity  of  that 
merit  will  richly  repay  it. 

E.  B. 


CCXLVIII. 
TO   MR.   THOMSON. 

(intnis  in  these  careless  wnrds  makes  us  acquainted 
with  one  of  his  sweetest  songs.] 

20th  March,  1793. 
My  dear  Sir, 

The  song  prefixed  ["Mary  Morison"']  is  one 
of  my  juvenile  works.  I  leave  it  in  your  hands. 
I  do  not  think  it  very  remarkable,  either  for  its 
merits  or  demerits.  It  is  impossible  (at  least  I 
feel  it  so  in  my  stinted  powers)  to  be  always 
original,  entertaining,  and  witty. 

What  is  become  of  the  list,  &c.,  of  your 
songs  ?  I  shall  be  out  of  all  temper  with  you, 
by  and  bye.  I  have  always  looked  on  myself  as 
the  prince  of  indolent  correspondents,  and  \talued 
myself  accordingly;  and  I  will  not,  cannot, 
bear  rivalship  from  you,  nor  anybody  else. 

R.  B. 


CCXLIX. 
TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[For  t.ie  "  Wondering  Willie"  of  this  communication 
Thomson  offered  several  corrections.] 

March,  1793. 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 

Now  tired  with  wandering,  baud  awa  hame ; 
Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ae  only  dearie,     [same. 

And  tell  me  thou  bring*8t  me  my  Willie  the 

'  Song  CLXXXVIII. 


Loud  blew  the  cauld  winter  winds  at  our  part 
ing; 
It  was  ua  the  blast  brought  the  tear  in  m;; 
e'e; 
Now  welcome  the   simmer,   and  welcome  mj 
Willie, 
The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Ye  hurricanes,  rest  in  the  cave  o'  your  slumbers  1 
Oh  how  your  wild  horrors  a  lover  alarms ! 

Awaken,  ye  breezes !  blow  gently,  ye  billows : 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms. 

But  if  he's  forgotten  his  faithfulest  Nannie, 

0  still  flow  between  us,  thou  wide,  roaring 

main  ; 
May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 
But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie's  my  ain ' 

1  leave  it  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  to  determine 
whether  the  above,  or  the  old  "Thro'  the  lang 
muir  I  have  followed  my  Willie,"  be  the  best. 

R.  B. 


CCL. 

TO   MISS  BENSON. 

[Miss  Benson,  when  this  letter  was  written,  was  on  a 
visit  to  Arbigland,  the  beautiful  seat  of  Captain  Crnik ; 
she  is  now  Mrs.  Basil  Montagu.] 

Dumfries,  2Ut  March,  1793. 
Madam, 

Among  many  things  for  which  I  envy  those 
hale,  long-lived  old  fellows  before  the  flood,  is 
this  in  particular,  that  when  they  met  with  any- 
body after  their  own  heart,  they  had  a  charm- 
ing long  prospect  of  many,  many  happy  meet- 
ings with  them  in  after-life. 

Now  in  this  short,  stormy,  winter  day  of  our 
fleeting  existence,  when  you  now  and  theA,  in 
the  Chapter  of  Accidents,  meet  an  individual 
whose  acquaintance  is  a  real  acquisition,  there 
are  all  the  probabilities  against  you,  that  you 
shall  never  meet  with  that  valued  character 
more.  On  the  other  hand,  brief  as  this  miser- 
able being  is,  it  is  none  of  the  least  of  the  mise- 
ries belonging  to  it,  that  if  there  is  any  mis- 
creant whom  you  hate,  or  creature  whom  yot. 
despise,  the  ill-run  of  the  chances  shall  be  sc 
against  you,  that  in  the  overtakings,  turnings, 
and  jostlings  of  life,  pop,  at  some  unlucky  cor- 
ner, eternally  comes  the  wretch  upon  you,  and 


45G 


UENEKAL   COKRESPONDENCE 


will  not  allow  your  indignation  or  contempt  a 
nioraeni's  repose.  As  I  am  a  sturdy  believer  in 
the  powers  of  darkness,  I  take  these  to  be  the 
doings  of  that  old  author  of  mischief,  the  devil. 
It  is  well-known  that  he  has  some  kind  of  short- 
hand way  of  taking  down  our  thoughts,  and  I 
make  no  doubt  he  is  perfectly  acquainted  with 
my  sentiments  respecting  Miss  Benson :  how 
much  I  admired  her  abilities  and  valued  her 
worth,  and  how  very  fortunate  I  thought  myself 
ia  her  acquaintance.  For  this  last  reason,  my 
dear  Madam,  I  must  entertain  no  hopes  of  the 
very  great  pleasure  of  meeting  with  you  again. 
Miss  Hamilton  tells  me  that  she  is  sending  a 
packet  to  you,  and  I  beg  leave  to  send  you  the 
enclosed  sonnet,  though,  to  tell  you  the  real 
truth,  the  sonnet  is  a  mere  pretence,  that  I  may 
have  the  opportunity  of  declaring  with  how 
much  respectful  esteem  I  have  the  honour  to 
be,  &c.  R.  B. 


CCLI. 
TO   PATRICK   MILLER,  ESQ., 

or    DALS  WINTON. 

[The  time  to  which  Burns  alludes  was  the  period  of 
his  occupation  of  EUisland.] 


Sir, 


Dumfries,  April,  17' 


My  poems  having  just  come  out  in  another 
edition,  will  you  do  me  the  honour  to  accept  of 
a  copy  ?  A  mark  of  my  gratitude  to  you,  as  a 
gentleman  to  whose  goodness  I  have  been  much 
indebted  ;  of  my  respect  for  you,  as  a  patriot 
who,  in  a  venal,  sliding  age,  stands  forth  the 
champion  of  the  liberties  of  my  country  ;  and 
of  my  veneration  for  you,  as  a  man,  whose  be- 
nevolence of  heart  does  honour  to  human  na- 
ture. 

There  was  a  time.  Sir,  when  I  was  your  de- 
pendent: this  language  then  would  have  been 
like  the  vile  incense  of  J9.attery — I  could  not  have 
used  it.  Now  that  connexion  is  at  an  end,  do 
me  the  honour  to  accept  of  this  honest  tribute  of 
respect  from.  Sir, 

Your  much  indebted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


>  Burns  here  calls  himself  the  "  Voice  of  Coila,"  in 
ftnitalionof  Ossian,who  'lenominates  himself  the  "  Voice 
of  Cona."— Cr  irih. 


CCLII. 

TO   Mr!    THOMSON. 

[This  review  of  our  Scottish  lyrics  is  well  worth  th<i 
attention  of  all  w^ho  write  songs,  read  songs,  or  sing 
songs.] 

1th  April,  1793. 

Thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your  psckct. 
You  cannot  imagine  how  much  this  businese  of 
composing  for  your  publication  has  added  to 
my  enjoyments.  What  with  my  early  attach- 
ment to  ballads,  your  book,  &c.,  ballad-making 
is  now  as  completely  my  hobby-horse  as  ever 
fortification  was  Uncle  Toby's;  so  I'll  e'en  canter 
it  away  till  I  come  to  the  limit  of  my  race — God 
grant  that  I  may  take  the  right  side  of  the  win- 
ning post ! — and  then  cheerfully  looking  back 
on  the  honest  folks  with  whom  I  have  been 
happy,  I  shall  say  or  sing,  "  Sae  merry  as  we 
a'  hae  been!"  and,  raising  my  last  looks  to  the 
whole  human  race,  the  last  words  of  the  voice 
of  "Coila"'  shall  be,  "Good  night,  and  joy  be 
wi'  you  a' !"  So  much  for  my  last  words:  now 
for  a  few  present  remarks,  as  they  have  occurred 
at  random,  on  looking  over  your  list. 

The  first  lines  of  "  The  last  time  I  came 
o'er  the  moor,"  and  several  other  lines  in  it, 
are  beautiful ;  but,  in  my  opinion — pardon  me, 
revered  shade  of  Ramsay! — the  song  is  un- 
worthy of  the  divine  air.  I  shall  try  to  make 
or  mend. 

"  For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove,'  2  is  a 
charming  song;  but  "Logan  burn  and  Logan 
braes"  is  sweetly  susceptible  of  rural  imagery ; 
I'll  try  that  likewise,  and,  if  I  succeed,  the 
other  song  may  class  among  the  English  ones. 
I  remember  the  two  1  ast  lines  of  a  verse  in 
some  of  the  old  songs  of  "  Logan  Water"  (for  I 
know  a  good  many  diflFerent  ones)  which  I  think 
pretty : — 

"  Now  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. "3 

"  My  Patie  is  a  lover  gay,"  is  unequal.  "His 
mind  is  never  muddy,"  is  a  muddy  expression 
indeed. 

"  Then  I'll  resign  and  marry  Pate, 
And  syne  my  cockernony — " 
This  is  surely  far  unworthy  of  Ramsay  or  your 
book.     My  song,  "  Rigs  of  barley,"  to  the  same 
tune,  does  not  altogether  please  me  ;  but  if  I 
can  mend  it,  and  thrash  a  few  loose  sentiments 


2  By  Tliomson,  not  the  musician,  but  the  poet. 

3  This  song  is  not  old  ;  its  author,  the  late  John  Mayne, 
long  outlived  Burns. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


457 


out  of  it,  I  will  submit  it  to  your  consideration. 
*'  The  lass  o'  Patie's  mill"  is  one  of  Ramsay's 
best  songs  ;  but  there  is  one  loose  sentiment  in 
it,  which  ray  much-valued  friend  Mr.  Erskine 
will  take  into  his  critical  consideration.  In  Sir 
John  Sinclair's  statistical  volumes,  are  two 
claims — one,  I  think  from  Aberdeenshire,  and 
the  other  from  Ayrshire — for  the  honour  of  this 
song.  The  following  anecdote,  which  I  had 
from  the  present  Sir  William  Cunningham  of 
Robertland,  who  had  it  of  the  late  John,  Earl 
of  Loudon,  I  can.  on  such  authorities,  believe : 

Allan  Ramsay  was  residing  at  Loudon-castle 
with  the  then  Earl,  father  to  Earl  John ;  and 
one  forenoon,  riding  or  walking,  out  together, 
his  lordship  and  Allan  passed  a  sweet  romantic 
spot  on  Irvine  water,  still  called  "  Patie's  mill," 
where  a  bonnie  lass  was  '*  tedding  hay,  bare- 
headed on  the  green."  My  lord  observed  to 
Allan,  that  it  would  be  a  fine  theme  for  a  song. 
Ramsay  took  the  hint,  and,  lingering  behind, 
lie  composed  the  first  sketch  of  it,  which  he  pro- 
duced at  dinner. 

•'  One  day  I  heard  Mary  say,"'  is  a  fine  song; 
but,  for  consistency's  sake,  alter  the  name 
"  Adonis."  Were  there  ever  such  banns  pub- 
lished, as  a  purpose  of  marriage  between  Adonis 
and  Mary!  I  agree  with  you  that  my  song, 
"  There's  nought  but  care  on  every  hand,"  is 
much  superior  to  "Poortith  cauld."  The  ori- 
ginal song,  "The  mill,  mill,  0!"'  though  ex- 
cellent, is,  on  account  of  delicacy,  inadmissible; 
still  I  like  the  title,  and  think  a  Scottish  song 
would  suit  the  notes  best ;  and  let  your  chosen 
Bong,  which  is  very  pretty,  follow  as  an  English 
set.  "  The  Banks  of  the  Dee"  is,  you  know, 
literally  "  Langolee,"  to  slow  time.  The  song 
is  well  enough,  but  has  some  false  imagery  in 
it :  for  instance, 
"  And  sweetly  the  nightingale  sang  from  the  tree." 

In  the  first  place,  the  nightingale  sings  in  a 
lov  bush,  but  never  from  a  tree ;  and  in  thd 
second  place,  there  never  was  a  nightingale 
seen  or  heard  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee,  or  on 
the  banks  of  any  other  river  in  Scotland.  Exotic 
rural  ima^ijery  is  always  comparatively  flat.'  If 
1  could  hit  on  another  stanza,  equal  to  "  The 
small  birds  rejoice,"  &c.,  I  do  myself  honestly 

'  By  Crnwfurd.  2  By  Ramsay. 

3  The  author,  John  Tait,  a  writer  to  the  Signet  and 
gome  time  Judge  of  the  police-court  in  Edinburgh, 
gMsented  to  this,  and  altered  the  line  to, 

"And  sweetly  the  wood-pigeon  cooed  from  the  tree.»» 


avow,  that  I  think  it  a  superior  song.*  "John 
Anderson,  my  jo" — the  song  to  this  tune  in 
Johnson's  Museum,  is  my  composition,  and  I 
think  it  not  my  worst  :*  if  it  suit  you,  take  it, 
and  welcome.  Your  collection  of  sentimental 
and  pathetic  songs,  is,  in  my  opinion,  very  com- 
plete ;  but  not  so  your  comic  ones.  Where  are 
" Tullochgorum,"  "Lumps  o' puddin,"  "Tibbie 
Fowler,"  and  several  others,  which,  in  my  hum- 
ble judgment,  are  well  worthy  of  preservation  ? 
There  is  also  one  sentimental  song  of  mine  in 
the  Museum,  which  never  was  known  out  of 
the  immediate  neighbourhood,  until  I  got  it 
taken  down  from  a  country  girl's  singing.  It 
is  called  "  Craigieburn  wood,"  and,  in  the 
opinion  of  Mr.  Clarke,  is  one  of  the  sweetest 
Scottish  songs.  He  is  quite  an  enthusiast  about 
it;  and  I  would  take  his  taste  in  Scottish  musio 
against  the  taste  of  most  connoisseurs. 

You  are  quite  right  in  inserting  the  last  five 
in  your  list,  though  they  are  certainly  Irish. 
"Shepherds,  I  have  lost  my  love !"  is  to  me  a 
heavenly  air — what  would  you  think  of  a  set  of 
Scottish  verses  to  it  ?  I  have  made  one  to  it  a 
good  while  ago,  which  I  think  *  *  *,  but  in  its 
original  state  it  is  not  quite  a  lady's  song.  I 
enclose  an  altered,  not  amended  copy  for  you,^ 
if  you  choose  to  set  the  tune  to  it,  and  let  the 
Irish  verses  follow. 

Mr.  Erskine's  songs  are  all  pretty,  but  his 
"  Lone  vale"  '  is  divine. 

Yours,  &c. 

R.  B. 

Let  me  know  just  how  you  like  these  random 
hints. 


CCLIII. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  letter  to  which  this  is  in  part  an  answer,  Currie 
says,  contains  many  observations  on  Scottish  songs,  and 
on  the  manner  of  adapting  the  words  to  the  masic,  whick 
at  Mr.  Thonuon's  desire  are  suppressed.] 

April,  179a 
I  HAVE  yours,  my  dear  Sir,  this  moment.     I 
shall  answer  it  and  your  former  letter,  in  my 
desultory  way  of  saying  whatever  comes  upper 
most. 


<  Song  CXXXIX.     6  Song  LXXX.     «  Song  CLXXVII. 

7  "  How  sweet  this  lone  vale,  and  how  soothing  to  reeling, 

Yon  nightingale's  notes  which  in  melody  meet." 

The  song  has  tbund  its  way  into  several  ro\l»?tions 


*i 


458 


GENERAL    COKRESPONDENCE 


The  business  of  many  of  our  tunes  wanting, 
at  the  beginning,  what  fiddlers  call  a  starting- 
note,  is  often  a  rub  to  us  poor  rhymers. 

•*  There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 
That  wander  through  the  blooming  heather,'' 

you  may  alter  to 

*'  Braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 
Ye  wander,"  &c. 

My  song,  "  Here  awa,  there  awa,"  as  amended 
by  Mr.  Erskine,  I  entirely  approve  of,  and  re- 
turn you. 

Give  me  leave  to  ci'iticise  your  taste  in  the 
only  thing  in  which  it  is,  in  my  opinion,  repre- 
hensible. You  know  I  ought  to  know  something 
of  my  own  trade.  Of  pathos,  sentiment,  and 
point,  you  are  a  complete  judge ;  but  there  is 
a  quality  more  necessary  than  either  in  a  song, 
and  which  is  the  very  essence  of  a  ballad — I 
mean  simplicity  :  now,  if  I  mistake  not,  this  last 
feature  you  are  a  little  apt  to  sacrifice  to  the 
foregoing. 

Ramsay,  as  every  other  poet,  has  not  been 
always  equally  happy  in  his  pieces  ;  still  I  can- 
not approve  of  taking  such  liberties  with  an 
author  as  Mr.  Walker  proposes  doing  with  "  The 
iast  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor."  Let  a  poet, 
if  he  choose,  take  up  the  idea  of  another,  and 
work  it  into  a  piece  of  his  own  ;  but  to  mangle 
the  works  of  the  poor  bard,  whose  tuneful 
tongue  is  now  mute  for  ever,  in  the  dark  and  nar- 
row house — by  Heaven,  'twould  be  sacrilege  !  I 
grant  that  Mr.  W.'s  version  is  an  improvement ; 
but  I  know  Mr.  W.  well,  and  esteem  him  much  ; 
let  him  mend  the  song,  as  the  Highlander  mend- 
ed his  gun — he  gave  it  a  new  stock,  a  new  lock, 
and  a  new  barrel. 

I  do  not,  by  this,  object  to  leaving  out  impro- 
per stanzas,  where  that  can  be  done  without 
spoiling  the  whole.  One  stanza  in  "The  lass 
o'  Patie's  mill"  must  be  left  out :  the  song  will 
be  nothing  worse  for  it.  I  am  not  sure  if  we 
oan  take  the  same  liberty  with  "  Corn  rigs  are 
bonnie."  Perhaps  it  might  want  the  last  stanza, 
and  be  the  better  for  it.  "  Cauld  kail  in  Aber- 
deen," you  must  leave  with  me  yet  awhile.  I 
have  vowed  to  have  a  song  to  that  air,  on  the  lady 
whom  T  attempted  to  celebrate  in  the  verses, 
"Poortitk  cauld  and  restless  love."  At  any 
rate,  my  other  song,  "  Green  grow  the  rashes," 

1  Songs  CXCII.  and  CXCIIl 


will  never  suit.  That  song,  is  current  in  Scot 
land  under  the  old  title,  and  to  the  merry  old 
tune  of  that  name,  which,  of  course,  would  mar 
the  progress  of  your  song  to  celebrity.  Your 
book  will  be  the  standard  of  Scots  songs  for  the 
future :  let  this  idea  ever  keep  your  judgment 
on  the  alarm. 

I  send  a  song  on  a  celebrated  toast  in  this 
country,  to  suit  "  Bonnie  Dundee."  I  send  jca 
also  a  ballad  to  the  "  Mill,  mill,  0  !"' 

"The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor,"  I 
would  fain  attempt  to  make  a  Scots  song  for, 
and  let  Ramsay's  be  the  English  set.  You  .shall 
hear  from  me  soon.  When  you  go  to  London 
on  this  business,  can  you  come  by  Dumfries  ?  I 
have  still  several  MS.  Scots  airs  by  me,  which 
I  have  picked  up,  mostly  from  the  singing  of 
country  lasses.  They  please  me  vastly ;  but 
your  learned  lugs  would  perhaps  be  displeased 
with  the  very  feature  for  which  I  like  them.  1 
call  them  simple  ;  you  would  pronounce  them 
silly.  Do  you  know  a  fine  air  called  "Jackie 
Hume's  Lament  ?"  I  have  a  song  of  consider- 
able merit  to  that  air,  I'll  enclose  you  both 
the  song  and  tune,  as  I  had  them  ready  to  send 
to  Johnson's  Museum.^  I  send  you  likewise,  to 
me,  a  beautiful  little  air,  which  I  had  taken 
down  from  viva  voce.^ 

Adieu. 

R.  B. 


CCLIV. 
TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[Thomson,  it  would  appear  by  his  answer  to  this  letter, 
was  at  issue  with  Burns  on  the  subject-matter  of  simpli- 
city :  the  former  seems  to  have  desired  a  sort  of  diplo- 
matic and  varnished  style  :  the  latter  felt  that  elegance 
and  simplicity  were  "  sisters  twin."] 

April,  1793. 
My  dear  Sir, 
I  HAD  scarcely  put  my  last  letter  into  the  post- 
office,  when  I  took  up  the  subject  of  "  The  last 
time  I  came  o'er  the  moor,"  and  ere  I  slept 
drew  the  outlines  of  the  foregoing.-*  How  I  have 
succeeded,  I  leave  on  this,  as  on  every  other  oc 
casion,  to  you  to  decide.  I  own  my  vanity  ia 
flattered,  when  you  give  my  songs  a  place  in 
your  elegant  and  superb  work ;  but  to  be  of 
service  to  the  work  is  my  first  wish.    As  I  have 

2  Song  CXCIV.  3  Song  CXCVIII. 

4  Song  CCXXXIV. 


OF   KOBEKT    BUKNS. 


1-30 


Dften  told  you,  I  do  not  in  a  single  instance  wish 
you,  out  of  compliment  to  me,  to  insert  any- 
thing of  mine.  One  hint  let  me  give  you — 
whatever  Mr.  Pleyel  does,  let  him  not  alter  one 
iota  of  the  original  Scottish  airs,  I  mean  in  the 
song  department,  but  let  our  national  music 
prcservi  its  native  features.  They  are,  I  own, 
frequinily  wild  and  irreducible  to  the  more 
modern  rules ;  but  on  that  very  eccentricity, 
'lerhaps,  depends  a  great  part  of  their  effect. 

R.  B. 


CCLV. 
TO  JOHN  FRANCIS   ERSKINE,  ESQ., 

OF    MAR. 

[This  remarkable  letter  has  been  of  late  the  subject  of 
some  controversy  :  Mr.  Fimllater,  who  happened  then  to 
be  in  the  Excise,  is  vehement  in  defence  of  the  "  honoura- 
ble I)u:»rd,"  and  is  certain  that  Burns  has  misrepresented 
the  conduct  of  liis  very  generous  masters.  In  answer  to 
this  it  has  been  urged  that  the  word  of  the  poet  has  in  no 
other  tlimg  been  questioned  :  that  in  the  last  moments  of 
his  life,  lie  solemnly  wrote  this  letter  into  his  memoran- 
dum-book, find  th.tt  the  reproof  of  Mr.  Corbet,  is  given  by 
him  either  as  a  quotation  from  a  paper  or  an  exact  recol- 
lection of  the  words  used:  the  expressions,  ''not  to 
think^^  and  be  "  silent  and  obedienV  are  underlined.] 


Sir, 


Dumfries,  IZlh  April,  1793. 


Degener.\te  as  human  nature  is  said  to  be, 
and  in  many  instances,  worthless  and  unprinci- 
pled it  is,  still  there  are  bright  examples  to  the 
contrary  ;  examples  that  even  in  the  eyes  of  su- 
perior beings,  must  shed  a  lustre  on  the  name 
of  man. 

Such  an  example  have  I  now  before  me,  when 
you,  Sir,  came  forward  to  patronize  and  befriend 
a  distant,  obscure  stranger,  merely  because  po- 
verty had  made  him  helpless,  and  his  British 
hardihood  of  mind  had  provoked  the  arbitrary 
wantonness  of  power.  My  much  esteemed 
friend,  Mr.  Riddel  of  Glenriddel,  has  just  read 
me  a  p^r^ graph  of  a  letter  he  had  from  you. 
Accept,  Sir^  of  the  silent  throb  of  gratitude  ; 
for  words  would  but  mock  the  emotions  of  my 
Boul. 

You  have  been  misinformed  as  to  my  final 
dismission  from  the  Excise ;  I  am  still  in  the 
Bervioe. — Indeed,  but  for  the  exertions  of  a  gen- 
tleman who  must  be  known  to  you,  Mr.  Graham 
df  Fintray,  a  gentleman  who  has  ever  been  my 
warm  and  generous  friend,  I  had,  without  so 
much  as  a  hearing,  or   the  slightest  previous 


intimation,  been  turned  adrift,  with  my  helples* 
family,  to  all  the  horrors  of  want.  Had  I  had 
any  other  resou»-ce,  probably  I  might  have  saved 
them  the  trouble  of  a  dismission  ;  but  the  little, 
money  I  gained  by  my  publication,  is  almost 
every  guinea  embarked,  to  save  from  ruin  an 
only  brother,  who,  though  one  of  the  worthiest, 
is  by  no  means  one  of  the  most  fortunate  of 
men. 

In  my  defence  to  their  accusations,  I  said,  that 
whatever  might  be  my  sentiments  of  republics, 
ancient  or  modern,  as  to  Britain,  I  abjured  the 
idea ! — That  a  constitution,  which,  in  its  ori- 
ginal principles,  experience  had  proved  to  be 
every  way  fitted  for  our  happiness  in  society,  it 
would  be  insanity  to  sacrifice  to  an  untried  vi- 
sionary theory: — that,  in  consideration  of  my 
being  situated  in  a  department,  however  humble, 
immediately  in  the  hands  of  people  in  power, 
I  had  forborne  taking  any  active  part,  either 
personally,  or  as  an  author,  in  the  present  busi- 
ness of  Reform.  But,  that,  where  I  must  dc 
clare  my  sentiments,  I  would  say  there  existed 
a  system  of  corruption  between  the  executive 
power  and  the  representative  part  of  the  legis- 
lature, which  boded  no  good  to  our  glorious  con- 
stitution ;  and  which  every  patriotic  Briton 
must  wish  to  see  amended. — Some  such  senti- 
ments as  these,  I  stated  in  a  letter  to  my  gene- 
rous patron,  Mr.  Graham,  which  he  laid  before 
the  Board  at  large ;  where,  it  seems,  my  last 
remark  gave  great  oflFence;  and  one  of  our 
supervisors-general,  a  Mr.  Corbet,  was  in- 
structed to  inquire  on  the  spot,  and  to  docu- 
ment me — "  that  my  business  was  to  act,  not  to 
think ;  and  that  whatever  might  be  men  or  mea- 
sures, it  was  for  me  to  be  silent  and  obedient." 

Mr.  Corbet  was  likewise  my  steady  friend  ; 
so  between  Mr.  Graham  and  him,  I  have  been 
partly  forgiven ;  only  I  understand  that  all 
hopes  of  my  getting  officially  forward,  are 
blasted. 

Now,  Sir,  to  the  business  in  which  I  would 
more  immediately  interest  you.  The  partiality 
of  my  countrymen  has  brought  me  forward  as 
a  man  of  genius,  anJ  has  given  me  a  character 
to  support.  In  the  Poet  I  have  av  wed  manly 
and  independent  sentiments,  which  I  trust  will 
be  found  in  the  m.\n.  Reasons  of  no  less  weight 
than  the  support  of  a  wife  and  family,  have 
pointed  out  as  the  eligible,  and,  situated  as  I 
was,  the  only  eligible  line  of  life  for  me,  mj 
{  present  occupation.    Still  my  honest  fame  is  mj 


«i 


160 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


dearest  concern ;  and  a  thousand  times  have  I 
trembled  at  the  idea  of  those  degrading  epithets 
that  malice  or  misrepresentation  may  affix  to  my 
name.  I  have  often,  in  blasting  anticipation, 
listened  to  some  future  hackney  scribbler,  with 
the  heavy  malice  of  savage  stupidity,  exulting 
in  his  hireling  paragraphs — "  Burns,  notwith- 
standing ihQ  fanfaronade  of  independence  to  be 
found  in  his  works,  and  after  having  been  held 
forth  to  public  view  and  to  public  estimation  as 
a  man  of  some  genius,  yet  quite  desitute  of  re- 
sources within  himself  to  support  his  borrowed 
dignity,  he  dwindled  into  a  paltry  exciseman, 
and  slunk  out  the  rest  of  his  insignificant  ex- 
istence in  the  meanest  of  pursuits,  and  among 
the  vilest  of  mankind." 

In  your  illustrious  hands,  Sir,  permit  me  to 
lodge  my  disavowal  ond  defiance  of  these  slan- 
derous falsehoods.  Burns  was  a  poor  man  from 
birth,  and  an  exciseman  by  necessity:  but  I 
icill  say  it!  the  sterling  of  his  honest  worth,  no 
poverty  could  debase,  and  his  independent 
British  mind,  oppression  might  bend,  but  could 
not  subdue.  Have  not  I,  to  me,  a  more  precious 
stake  in  my  country's  welfare  than  the  richest 
dukedom  in  it  ? — I  have  a  large  family  of  chil- 
dren, and  the  prospect  of  many  more.  I  have 
three  sons,  who,  I  see  already,  have  brought 
into  the  world  souls  ill  qualified  to  inhabit  the 
bodies  of  slaves. — Can  I  look  tamely  on,  and 
see  any  machination  to  wrest  from  them  the 
birthright  of  my  boys, — the  little  independent 
Britons,  in  whose  veins  runs  my  own  blood? — 
No !  I  will  not !  should  my  heart's  blood  stream 
around  my  attempt  to  defend  it ! 

Does  any  man  tell  me,  that  my  full  efforts 
can  be  of  no  service ;  and  that  it  does  not  be- 
long to  my  humble  station  to  meddle  with  the 
concern  of  a  nation  ? 

I  can  tell  him,  that  it  is  on  such  individuals 
as  I,  that  a  nation  has  to  rest,  both  for  the 
hand  of  support,  and  the  eye  of  intelligence. 
The  uninformed  mob  may  swell  a  nation' i.  bulk; 
and  the  titled,  tinsel,  courtly  throng,  may  be  its 
feathered  ornament ;  but  the  number  of  those 
who  are  elevated  enough  in  life  to  reason  and  to 
reflect ;  yet  low  enough  to  keep  clear  of  the 
venal  contagion  of  a  court ! — these  are  a  nation's 
strength. 

I  know  not  how  to  apologize  for  the  imperti- 
nent length  of  this  epistle  ;  but  one  small  re- 
quest I  must  ask  of  you  further — when  you  have 
honoured  this  letter  with  a  perusal,  please  to 


commit  it  to  the  flames.  Burns,  in  whose  be- 
half you  have  so  generously  interested  yourself, 
I  have  here  in  his  native  colours  drawn  as  he  is, 
but  should  any  of  the  people  in  whose  hands  ia 
the  very  bread  he  eats,  get  the  least  knowledge 
of  the  picture,  it  would  ruin  the  poor  bard  for 
ever! 

My  poems  having  just  come  out  in  another 

edition,  I  beg  leave  to  present  you  with  a  copy, 

as  a  small  mark  of  that  high  esteem  and  ardent 

gratitude,  with  which  I  have  the  honour  to  be. 

Sir, 

Your  deeply  indebted, 

And  ever  devoted  humble  servant, 
R.  B. 


CCLVI. 

TO   ROBERT  AINSLIE,  ESQ. 

["Up  tails  a',  by  the  light  o' the  moon,"  was  the  name 
of  a  Scottish  nir,  to  which  the  devil  danced  with  the 
witches  of  Fife,  on  Magus  Moor,  as  reported  by  a  war- 
lock, in  that  credible  work,  "  Satan's  Invisible  World 
discovered."] 

April  26,  1793. 

I  AM  d-mnably  out  of  humour,  my  dear  Ains- 
lie,  and  that  is  the  reason,  why  I  take  up  the 
pen  to  you :  'tis  the  nearest  way  [probatum  est) 
to  recover  my  spirits  again. 

I  received  your  last,  and  was  much  enter- 
tained with  it ;  but  I  will  not  at  this  time,  nor  at 
any  other  time,  answer  it. — Answer  a  letter  ?  1 
never  could  answer  a  letter  in  my  life ! — I  have 
written  many  a  letter  in  return  for  letters  I 
have  received ;  but  then — they  were  original 
matter — spurt-away !  zig  here,  zag  there ;  as 
if  the  devil  that,  my  Grannie  (an  old  woman  in- 
deed) often  told  me,  rode  on  will-o'-wisp,  or,  in 
her  more  classic  phrase,  Spunkie,  were  looking 
over  my  elbow. — Happy  thought  that  idea  has 
engendered  in  my  head !  Spunkie — thou  shalt 
henceforth  be  my  symbol  signature,  and  tutelary 
genius!  Like  thee,  hap-step-and-lowp,  here- 
awa-there-awa,  higglety-pigglety,  pell-mell, 
hither-and-yon,  ram-stam,  happy-go-lucky,  up- 
tails-a'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon, — has  been,  is, 
and  shall  be,  my  progress  through  the  mosses 
and  moors  of  this  vile,  bleak,  barren  wilderness 
of  a  life  of  ours. 

Come  then,  my  guardian  spirit,  like  thee  may 
I  skip  away,  amusing  myself  by  and  at  my  own 
light :  and  if  any  opaqae-souled  lubber  of  man- 
kind  complain    that  my  elfine,  lambent,  glim 


OF   KOBERT   BURNS. 


461 


merous  wanderings  have  misled  his  stupid  step? 
over  precipices,  or  into  bogs,  let  the  thickheaded 
biunderbuss  recollect,  that  he  is  not  Spunkie  : 
—that 

"  Spttnkie's  wanderings  could  not  copied  be  : 
Amid  these  perils  none  durst  walk  but  he." — 
*  *  *  *  * 

1  have  no  doubt  but  scholarcraft  may  be 
caught,  as  a  Scotchman  catches  the  itch, — by 
frictun.  How  else  can  you  account  for  it,  that 
born  blockheads,  by  mere  dint  of  handling  books, 
grow  so  wise  that  even  they  themselves  are 
equally  convinced  of  and  surprised  at  their  own 
parts  ?  I  once  carried  this  philosophy  to  that 
degree  that  in  a  knot  of  country  folks  who  had 
a  library  amongst  them,  and  who,  to  the  honour 
of  their  good  sense,  made  me  factotum  in  the 
business ;  one  of  our  members,  a  little,  wise- 
looking,  squat,  upright,  jabbering  body  of  a 
tailor,  I  advised  him,  instead  of  turning  over 
the  leaves,  to  bind  the  book  on  his  back. — Jonnnie 
took  the  hint ;  and  as  our  meetings  were  every 
fourth  Saturday,  and  Pricklouse  having  a  good 
Scot-s  mile  to  walk  in  coming,  and,  of  course, 
another  in  returning.  Bodkin  was  sure  to  lay 
his  hand  on  some  heavy  quarto,  or  ponderous 
folio,  with,  and  under  which,  wrapt  up  in  his 
gray  plaid,  he  grew  wise,  as  he  grew  weary,  all 
the  way  home.  He  carried  this  so  far,  that  an 
old  musty  Hebrew  concordance,  which  we  had 
in  a  present  from  a  neighbouring  priest,  by  mere 
dint  of  applying  it,  as  doctors  do  a  blistering 
plaster,  between  his  shoulders,  Stitch,  in  a  dozen 
pilgrimages,  acquired  as  much  rational  theology 
as  the  said  priest  had  done  by  forty  years  pe- 
rusal of  the  pages. 

Tell  me,  and  tell  me  truly,  what  you  think  of 
this  theory. 

Yours, 

Spunkib. 


ccLvn. 

TO   MISS   KENNEDY. 

[Miss  Kennedy  was  one  of  that  numerous  band  of  ladies 
*eho  patronized  the  poet  in  Edinburgh  ;  she  was  related 
)p  the  Hamiltons  of  Mossgiel.] 

Madam, 

Permit  me  to  present  you  with  the  enclosed 

song  as  a  small  though  grateful  tribute  for  the 

honour  of  your  acquaintance.    I  have,  in  these 

verses,  attempted  some  faint  sketches  of  your 


portrait  iu  the  unembellished  simple  manner  of 
descriptive  truth. — Flattery,  I  leave  to  your 
LOVERS,  whose  exaggerating  fancies  may  make 
them  imagine  you  still  nearer  perfectiou  than 
you  really  are. 

Poets,  Madam,  of  all  mankind,  feel  most  for- 
cibly the  powers  of  beauty;  as,  if  they  ara 
really  poets  of  nature's  making,  their  feelingt 
must  be  finer,  and  their  taste  more  delicate  than 
most  of  the  world.  In  the  cheerful  bloom  of 
SPRING,  or  the  pensive  mildness  of  autumn  ;  the 
grandeur  of  summer,  or  the  hoary  majesty  of 
winter,  the  poet  feels  a  charm  unknown  to  the 
rest  of  his  species.  Even  the  sight  of  a  fine 
flower,  or  the  company  of  a  fine  woman  (by  far 
the  finest  part  of  God's  works  below),  have  sen- 
sations ioT  the  poetic  heart  that  the  herd  of 
man  are  strangers  to. — On  this  last  account, 
Madam,  I  am,  as  in  many  other  things,  indebt- 
ed to  Mr.  Hamilton's  kindness  in  introducing 
me  to  you.  Your  lovers  may  view  you  with  a 
wish,  I  look  on  you  with  pleasure  ;  their  hearts, 
in  your  presence,  may  glow  with  desire,  mine 
rises  with  admiration. 

That  the  arrows  of  misfortune,  however  they 
should,  as  incident  to  humanity,  glance  a  slight 
wound,  may  never  reach  your  heart — that  the 
snares  of  villany  may  never  beset  you  in  the 
road  of  life — that  innocence  may  hand  you  by 
the  path  of  honour  to  the  dwelling  of  peace,  is 
the  sincere  wish  of  him  who  has  the  honour  to 
be,  &c.  R-  B. 


CCLVni. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  name  of  the  friend  who  fell  a  sacrifice  to  thos« 
changeable  times,  has  not  been  mentioned  :  it  is  believad 
he  was  of  the  west  country.] 

Jiin«,  1793. 

When  I  tell  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  a  friend 
of  mine  in  whom  I  am  much  interested,  has  fall- 
en a  sacrifice  to  these  accursed  times,  you  will 
easily  allow  that  it  might  unhinge  me  for  doing 
any  good  among  ballads.  My  own  loss  as  to 
pecuniary  matters  is  trifling;  but  the  total  ruia 
of  a  much-loved  friend  is  a  loss  indeed.  Par- 
don my  seeming  inattention  to  your  last  com- 
mands. 

I  cannot  alter  the  disputed  linos  in  the  "  Mill^ 


462 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


Mill,  0!'"  What  you  think  a  defect,  I  esteem 
as  a  positive  beauty ;  so  you  see  how  doctors 
differ.  I  shall  now,  with  as  much  alacrity  as  I 
can  muster,  go  on  with  your  commands. 

You  know  Frazer,  the  hautboy-player  in 
Edinburgh — he  is  here,  instructing  a  band  of 
music  for  a  fencible  corps  quartered  in  this 
county.  Among  many  of  his  airs  that  please 
me,  there  is  one,  well  known  as  a  reel,  by  the 
name  of  "The  Quaker's  Wife ;"  and  which,  I 
remember,  a  grand-aunt  of  mine  used  to  sing, 
by  the  name  of  "Liggeram  Cosh,  my  bonnie 
wee  lass."  Mr.  Frazer  plays  it  slow,  and  with 
an  expression  that  quite  charms  me.  I  became 
such  an  enthusiast  about  it,  that  I  made  a  song 
for  it,  which  I  here  subjoin,  and  enclose  Fra- 
zer's  set  of  the  tune.  If  they  hit  your  fancy, 
they  are  at  your  service  ;  if  not,  return  me  the 
tune,  and  I  will  put  it  in  Johnson's  Museum.  I 
think  the  song  is  not  in  my  worst  manner. 

Blythe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill.=^ 

I  should  wish  to  hear  how  this  pleases  you. 

•  R.  B. 


CCLIX. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[Against  tlie  mighty  oppressors  of  the  earth  the  poet 
was  ever  ready  to  set  the  sharpest  shafts  of  his  wrath  : 
the  times  in  which  he  wrote  were  sadly  out  of  sorts.] 

June  25th,  1793. 
Have  you  ever,  my  dear  Sir,  felt  your  bosom 
ready  to  burst  with  indignation,  on  reading  of 
those  mighty  villains  who  divide  kingdoms,  de- 
solate provinces,  and  lay  nations  waste,  out  of 
the  wantonness  of  ambition,  or  often  from  still 
more  ignoble  passions  ?  In  a  mood  of  this  kind 
to-day  I  recollected  the  air  of  "Logan  Water," 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  its  querulous  melody 
probably  had  its  origin  from  the  plaintive  indig- 
nation of  some  swelling,  suflFering  heart,  fired 
at  the  tyrannic  strides  of  some  public  destroyer, 
and  overwhelmed.with  private  distress,  the  con- 
Bequence  of  a  country's  ruin.     If  I  have  done 

'  "  The  lines  were  the  third  and  fourth  : 

'  Wi'  mony  a  sweet  babe  fatherless, 
And  mony  a  widow  mourning.' 

As  our  poet  had  maintained  a  long  silence,  and  the  first 
number  of  Mr.  Thomson's  musical  work  was  in  the  press, 
Ihis gentleman  ventured,  by  Mr.  Erskine's  advice,  to  sub- 
•tiiute  for  them,  in  that  publication. 


anything  at  all  like  justice  to  my  feelings,  the 
following  song,  composed  in  three-quarters  of 
an  hour's  meditation  in  my  elbow-chair,  ought 
to  have  some  merit: — 

0  Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide.* 

Do  you  know  the  following  beautiful  little 
fragment,  in  Wotherspoon's  collection  of  Scot* 

songs  t* 

Air — "  Ilughie  Graham." 
"Oh  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 
That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa' ; 
And  I  mysel'  a  drap  o'  dew, 
Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa' ! 

"  Oh  there,  beyond  expression  blest, 
I'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night, 
Seal'd  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest. 
Till  fley'd  awa  by  Phoebus  light!" 

This  thought  is  inexpressibly  beautiful ;  and 
quite,  so  far  as  I  know,  original.  It  is  too  short 
for  a  song,  else  I  would  forswear  you  altogether 
unless  you  gave  it  a  place.  I  have  often  tried 
to  eke  a  stanza  to  it,  but  in  vain.  After  ba- 
lancing myself  for  a  musing  five  minutes,  on  the 
hind  legs  of  my  elbow-chair,  I  produced  the  fol- 
lowing. 

The  verses  are  far  inferior  to  the  foregoing,  I 
frankly  confess :  but  if  worthy  of  insertion  at 
all,  they  might  be  first  in  place  ;  as  every  poet 
who  knows  anything  of  his  trade,  will  husband 
his  best  thoughts  for  a  concluding  stroke. 

Oh' were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 
Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring ; 

And  I  a  bird  to  shelter  there. 
When  wearied  on  my  little  wing ! 

How  I  wad  mourn,  when  it  was  torn 
By  autumn  wild  and  winter  rude ! 

But  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

When  youthfu'  May  its  bloom  renewed.* 

R.  B. 


'And  eyes  again  with  pleasure  beam'd 
That  had  been  blear'd  with  mourning.' 
Though  better  suited  to  the  music,  these  lines  are  inferio 
to  the  original." — Currie. 

£  Song  CXV.  3  Song  CXCVI. 

4  Better  known  as  Herd's.    Wotherspoon  was  one  o 
the  publishers. 

5  See  Song  CXCVI  I, 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


403 


CCLX. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[Thomson,  in  his  reply  to  the  preceding  letter,  laments 
Ihfit  anything  should  untune  the  feelings  of  the  poet,  and 
begs  his  acceptance  of  five  pounds,  as  a  small  mark  of 
lis  gratitude  for  his  beautiful  songs.] 

July  Id,  1793. 
My  dear  Sir, 
I  HAVE  just  finished  the  following  ballad,  and, 
as  I  do  think  it  in  my  best  style,  I  send  it  you. 
Mr.  Clarke,  who  wrote  down  the  air  from  Mrs. 
Burus's  wood-note  wild,  is  very  fond  of  it,  and 
has  given  it  a  celebrity  by  teaching  it  to  some 
young  ladies  of  the  first  fashion  here.  If  you 
do  not  like  the  air  enough  to  give  it  a  place  in 
your  collection,  please  return  it.  The  song  you 
may  keep,  as  I  remember  it. 

There  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair.' 

I  have  some  thoughts  of  inserting  in  your 
index,  or  in  my  notes,  the  names  of  the  fair  ones, 
the  themes  of  my  songs.  I  do  not  mean  the 
name  at  full ;  but  dashes  or  asterisms,  so  as 
ingenuity  may  find  them  out. 

The  heroine  of  the  foregoing  is  Miss  M'Murdo, 
daughter  to  Mr.  M'Murdo,  of  Drumlanrig,  one 
of  your  subscribers.  I  have  not  painted  her  in 
the  rank  which  she  holds  in  life,  but  in  the  dress 
and  character  of  a  cottager.  R.  B. 


CCLXI. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

(Bums  in  this  letter  speaks  of  the  pecuniary  present 
which  Thomson  sent  him,  in  a  lofty  and  angry  mood  :  he 
vho  published  poems  by  subscription  might  surely  have 
accepted,  without  any  impropriety,  payment  for  his 
Bongs.j 

July,  1793, 
I  ASSURE  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you  truly 
h  irt  me  with  your  pecuniary  parcel.  It  de- 
t^rades  me  in  my  own  eyes.  However,  to  return 
it  would  savour  of  affectation ;  but,  as  to  any 
more  traffic  of  that  debtor  and  creditor  kind,  I 
twear  by  that  honour  which  crowns  the  up- 
right statue  of  Robert  Burns's  Integrity— 
<in  the  least  motion  of  it,  I  will  indignantly  spurn 
tlie  bypast  transaction,  and  from  that  moment 
pommence  entire  stranger  to  you  !  Burns's  cha- 
racter for  generosity  of  sentiment  and  indepen- 

-  -.mg  OXCVIIl. 

<  Miss  Rutherford,  of  Femilee  ia  Selkirkahire,  by  loar- 


dence  of  mind,  will,  I  trust,  long  outlive  any 
of  his  wants  which  the  cold  unfeeling  ore  can 
supply  ;  at  least,  I  will  take  care  that  such  a 
character  he  shall  deserve. 

Thank  you  for  my  copy  of  your  publication. 
Never  did  my  eyes  behold  in  any  musical  work 
such  elegance  and  correctness.  Your  preface, 
too,  is  admirably  written,  only  your  partiality 
to  me  has  made  you  say  too  much :  however,  it 
will  bind  me  down  to  double  every  effort  in  ine 
future  progress  of  the  work.  The  following 
are  a  few  remarks  on  the  songs  in  the  list  you 
sent  me.  1  never  copy  what  I  write  to  you,  so 
I  may  be  often  tautological,  or  perhaps  contra- 
dictory. 

"  The  Flowers  o'  the  Forest,"  is  charming  as 
a  poem,  and  should  be,  and  must  be,  set  to  the 
notes ;  but,  though  out  of  your  rule,  the  three 
stanzas  beginning, 

"I've  seen  the  smiling  of  fortune  beguiling," 
are  worthy  of  a  place,  were  it  but  to  immortal- 
ize the  author  of  them,  who  is  an  old  lady  of 
my  acquaintance,  and  at  this  moment  living  in 
Edinburgh.  She  is  a  Mrs.  Cockburn,  I  forget 
of  what  place,  but  from  Roxburghshire. ^  What 
a  charming  apostrophe  is 

"  O  fickle  fortune,  why  this  cruel  sporting. 
Why  thus  perplex  us,  poor  sons  of  a  day  ?" 

The  old  ballad,  "  I  wish  I  were  where  Heleu 
lies,"  is  silly  to  contemptibility.  My  alteration 
of  it,  in  Johnson's,  is  not  much  better.  Mr. 
Pinkerton,  in  his,  what  he  calls,  ancient  ballads 
(many  of  them  notorious,  though  beautiful 
enough,  forgeries),  has  the  best  set.  It  is  full 
of  his  own  interpolations — but  no  matter. 

In  ray  next  I  will  suggest  to  your  considera- 
tion a  few  songs  which  may  have  escaped  your 
hurried  notice.  In  the  meantime  allow  me  to 
congratulate  you  now,  as  a  brother  of  the  quill. 
You  have  committed  your  character  and  fame, 
which  will  now  be  tried,  for  ages  to  come,  by 
the  illustrious  jury  of  the  Sons  and  Dauoii- 
ters  of  Taste — all  whom  poesy  can  please  or 
music  charm. 

Being  a  bard  of  nature,  I  have  some  preten- 
sions to  second  sight ;  and  I  am  warranted  by 
the  spirit  to  foretell  and  affirm,  that  your  great- 
grand-child  will  hold  up  your  volumes,  and  say, 
with  honest  pride,  "  This  so  much  admired  8«' 
lection  was  the  work  of  my  ancestor  I" 

R.  B. 


riage  Mrs.  Patrick  Cockburn,  of  Ormiston. 
ITtM,  at  un  advanced  agu. 


She  died  ia 


464 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE 


CCLXII. 
TO   MR.   THOMSON. 

[Stephen  Chirke,  whose  name  is  at  this  strange  note, 
was  a  musician  and  composer ;  he  was  a  clever  man,  and 
had  a  high  opinion  of  liis  own  powers.] 

August,  1793. 
My  dear  Thomson, 

I  HOLD  the  pen  for  our  friend  Clarke,  who  at 
present  is  studying  the  music  of  the  spheres  at 
my  elbow.  The  Georgium  Sidus  he  thinks  is 
rather  out  of  tune  ;  so,  until  he  rectify  that 
matter,  he  cannot  stoop  to  terrestrial  affairs. 

He  sends  you  six  of  the  rondeau  subjects,  and 
if  more  are  wanted,  he  says  you  shall  have 
them. 


Confound  your  long  stairs  ! 


S.  Clarke. 


CCLXIII. 

TO  MR.    THOMSON. 

["  Phillis  the  Fair"  endured  much  at  the  hands  of  both 
Burns  and  Clarke.  The  young  lady  had  reason  to  com- 
plain, when  the  poet  volunteered  to  sing  the  imaginary 
love  of  that  fantastic  fiddler.] 

August,  1793. 

Your  objection,  my  dear  Sir,  to  the  passages 
in  my  song  of  *'  Logan  Water,"  is  right  in  one 
instance ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  mend  it :  if  I  can, 
I  will.  The  other  passage  you  object  to  does 
not  appear  in  the  same  light  to  me. 

I  have  tried  my  hand  on  "  Robin  Adair,"  and, 
you  will  probably  think,  with  little  success ;  but 
it  is  such  a  cursed,  cramp,  out-of-the-way  mea- 
sure, that  I  despair  of  doing  anything  better  to 
it. 

While  larks  with  little  wing.* 

So  much  for  namby-pamby.  I  may,  after  all, 
try  my  hand  on  it  in  Scots  verse.  There  I 
always  find  myself  most  at  home. 

I  have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  the  song  I 
meant  for  "  Cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen."  If  it  suits 
you  to  insert  it,  I  shall  be  pleased,  as  the  hero- 
ine is  a  favourite  of  mine ;  if  not,  I  shall  also 
be  pleased ;  because  I  wish,  and  will  be  glad, 
to  see  you  act  decidedly  on  the  business.  'Tis 
a  tribute  as  a  man  of  taste,  and  as  an  editor, 
which  you  owe  yourself. 

R.  B. 


CCLXIV. 
TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[The  infusion  of  Highland  airs  and  north  country  sub 
jects  into  the  music  and  songs  of  Scotland,  has  invigora- 
ted both :  Burns,  who  had  a  fine  ear  as  well  as  a  fine 
taste,  was  familiar  with  all,  either  Highland  or  Low- 
land.] 

August,  1793. 
That  crinkum-crankum  tune,  "  Robin  Adair," 
has  run  so  in  my  head,  and  I  succeeded  so  ill  in 
my  last  attempt,  that  I  have  ventured,  in  this 
morning's  walk,  one  essay  more.  You,  my  dear 
Sir,  will  remember  an  unfortunate  part  of  our 
worthy  friend  Cunningham's  story,  which  hap 
pened  about  three  years  ago.  That  struck  my 
fancy,  and  I  endeavoured  to  do  the  idea  justice 
as  follows : 

Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore.' 

By  the  way,  I  have  met  with  a  musical  High 
lander  in  Breadalbane's  Fencibles,  which  are 
quartered  here,  who  assures  me  that  he  well 
remembers  his  mother  singing  Gaelic  songs  to 
both  "Robin  Adair,"  and  "  Graramachree." 
They  certainly  have  more  of  the  Scotch  than 
Irish  taste  in  them. 

This  man  comes  from  the  vicinity  of  Inver 
ness :  so  it  could  not  be  any  intercourse  with 
Ireland  that  could  bring  them;  except,  what  1 
shrewdly  suspect  to  be  the  case,  the  wandering 
minstrels,  harpers,  and  pipers,  used  to  go  fre 
quently  errant  through  the  wilds  both  of  Scot 
land  and  Ireland,  and  so  some  favourite  airs 
might  be  common  to  both.  A  case  in  point — 
they  have  lately,  in  Ireland,  published  an  Irish 
air,  as  they  say,  called  "Caun  du  delish."  The 
fact  is,  in  a  publication  of  Corri's,  a  great  while 
ago,  you  will  find  the  same  air,  called  a  High- 
land one,  with  a  Gaelic  song  set  to  it.  Its 
name  there,  I  think,  is  "  Oran  Gaoil,"  and  a 
fine  air  it  is.  Do  ask  honest  Allan  or  the  Rev. 
Gaelic  parson,  about  these  matters. 

R.  B. 


Song  CXCIX. 


CCLXV. 
TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

[While  Burns  composed  songs,  Thomson  got  some  «. 
the  happiest  embodied  by  David  Allan,  the  painter,  wliose 
illustrations  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd  had  been  favourably 
received.    But  save  when  an  old  man  was  admitted  tc 

3  Song  CC 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


465 


.ne  scene,  his  designs  may  be  regarded  as  failures :  his 
maidens  were  coarse  and  his  old  wives  rigwiddie 
carlins.j 

Auffutt,  1793. 
My  dear  Sib, 

"  Let  me  in  this  ae  night"  I  will  reconsider. 
I  am  glad  that  you  are  pleased  with  my  song, 
'•  Had  I  a  cave,"  &c.,  as  I  liked  it  myself. 

I  walked  out  yesterday  evening  with  a  volume 
of  the  Museum  in  my  hand,  when  turning  up 
*'  Allan  Water,"  "  What  numbers  shall  the  muse 
repeat,"  &c.,  as  the  words  appeared  to  me  rather 
unworthy  of  so  fine  an  air,  and  recollecting  that 
it  is  on  your  list,  I  sat  and  raved  under  the 
shade  of  an  old  thorn,  till  I  wrote  one  to  suit 
the  measure.  I  may  be  wrong;  but  I  think  it 
not  in  my  worst  style.  You  must  know,  that-in 
Ramsay's  Tea-table,  where  the  modern  song 
first  appeared,  the  ancient  name  of  the  tune, 
Allan  says,  is  "Allan  Water,"  or  "My  love 
Annie's  very  bonnie."  This  last  has  certainly 
been  a  line  of  the  original  song ;  so  I  took  up 
the  idea,  and,  as  you  will  see,  have  introduced 
the  line  in  its  place,  which  I  presume  it  formerly 
occupied ;  though  I  likewise  give  you  a  choosing 
line,  if  it  should  not  hit  the  cut  of  your  fancy : 

By  Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove.' 

Bravo !  say  I ;  it  is  a  good  song.  Should  you 
think  so  too  (not  else)  you  can  set  the  music  to 
it,  and  let  the  other  follow  as  English  verses. 

Autumn  is  my  propitious  season.  I  make 
more  verses  in  it  than  all  the  year  else.  God 
bless  you !  R.  B. 


CCLXVI. 

TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

[Phillis,  or  Philadelphia  M'Murdo,  in  whose  honour 
Burns  composed  the  song  beginning  "Adown  wmding 
Nith  I  did  wander,"  and  several  others,  died  September 
fith,  1825.] 

August,  1798. 
Is  "Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad," 
one  of  your  airs  ?  I  admire  it  much  ;  and  yes- 
terday I  set  the  following  verses  to  it.  Urbani, 
whom  I  have  met  with  here,  begged  them  of 
me,  as  he  admires  the  air  much  ;  but  as  I  under- 
stand that  he  looks  with  rather  an  evil  eye  on 
your  work,  I  did  not  choose  to  comply.  How- 
ever, if  the  song  does  not  suit  your  taste  I  may 


1  Song  CCI 
30 


9  Song  ecu. 


possibly  send  it  him.     The  set  of  the  air  which 
I  had  in  my  eye,  is  in  Johnson's  Museum. 

0  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  yoa,  my  lad.* 

Another  favourite  air  of  mine  is,  "  The 
muckin'  o'  Geordie's  byre."  When  sung  slow, 
with  expression,  I  have  wished  that  it  had  had 
better  poetry ;  that  I  have  endeavoured  to  supply 
as  follows : 

Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander.^ 

Mr.  Clarke  begs  you  to  give  Miss  Phillis  a 
corner  in  your  book,  as  she  is  a  particular  flame 
of  his,  and  out  of  compliment  to  him  I  have 
made  the  song.  She  is  a  Miss  Phillis  M'Murdo, 
sister  to  "  Bonnie  Jean."  They  are  both  pupils 
of  his.  You  shall  hear  from  me,  the  very  first 
grist  I  get  from  my  rhyming-mill. 

R.  B 


ccLxvn. 
TO  MR.    THOMSON. 

[Burns  was  fond  of  expressive  word  8  :  "  Gloaming,  the 
twilight,"  says  Carrie,  "is  a  beautiful  poetic  word, 
which  ought  to  be  adopted  in  England."  Burns  and 
Scott  have  made  the  Scottish  language  popular  over  the 
world. 1 

August,  1793. 
That  tune,  "  Cauld  kail,"  is  such  a  favourite 
of  yours,  that  I  once  more  roved  out  yesterdaj 
for  a  gloamin-shot  at  the  muses  ;  when  the  muse 
that  presides  o'er  the  shores  of  Nith,  or  rather 
my  old  inspiring  dearest  nymph,  Coila,  whis- 
pered me  the  following.  I  have  two  reasons  for 
thinking  that  it  was  my  early,  sweet  simple  in- 
spirer  that  was  by  my  elbow,  "  smooth  gliding 
without  step,"  and  pouring  the  song  on  my 
glowing  fancy.  In  the  first  place,  since  I  left 
Coila's  native  haunts,  not  a  fragment  of  a  po€t 
has  arisen  to  cheer  her  solitary  musings,  by 
catching  inspiration  from  her,  so  I  more  than 
suspect  that  she  has  followed  me  hither,  or,  at 
least,  makes  me  occasional  visits ;  secondly,  the 
last  stanza  of  this  song  I  send  you,  is  the  very 
words  that  Coila  taught  me  many  years  ago,  and 
which  I  set  to  an  old  Scots  reel  in  Johnson's 
Museum. 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast.* 

If  you  think  the  above  will  suit  your  idea  of 


SBongCCIII. 


Song  CCIV. 


im 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


jrour  favourite  air,  I  shall  be  highly  pleased. 
•'  The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor"  I  cannot 
meddle  with,  as  to  mending  it ;  and  the  musical 
world  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  Ramsay's 
words,  that  a  different  song,  though  positively 
superior,  would  not  be  so  well  received.  I  am 
not  fond  of  choruses  to  songs,  so  I  have  not 

made  one  for  the  foregoing. 

R.  B. 


CCLXVIII. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

["  Cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen,  and  castocks  in  Strabogie," 
are  words  which  have  no  connexion  with  the  sentiment 
of  the  song  which  Burns  wrote  for  the  air.] 

August,  1793. 
Song. 
Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers.' 

So  much  for  Davie.  The  chorus,  you  know, 
is  to  the  low  part  of  the  tune.  See  Clarke's  set 
of  it  in  the  Museum. 

N.  B.  In  the  Museum  they  have  drawled  out 

the  tune  to  twelve  lines  of  poetry,  which  is 

nonsense.  Four  lines  of  song,  and  four  of 
chorus,  is  the  way.  2 


CCLXIX. 

TO   MISS   CRAIK 

[Miss  Helen  Craik,  of  Arbigland,  had  merit  both  as  a 
poetess  and  novelist :  her  ballads  may  be  compared  with 
those  of  H«ctor  M'Neil :  her  novels  had  a  seasoning  of 
satire  in  them.] 

Dumfries,  August,  1793. 
Madam, 

Some  rather  unlooked-for  accidents  have  pre- 
vented my  doing  myself  the  honour  of  a  second 
visit  to  Arbigland,  as  I  was  so  hospitably  in- 
vitedj,  and  so  positively  meant  to  have  done. — 
However,  I  still  hope  to  have  that  pleasure  be- 
fore the  busy  months  of  harvest  begin. 

I  enclose  you  two  of  my  late  pieces,  as  some 
kind  of  return  for  the  pleasure  I  have  received 
in  perusing  a  certain  MS.  volume  of  poems  in 
the  possession  of  Captain  Riddel.  To  repay  one 
with  an  old  song,  is  a  proverb,  whose  force,  you. 
Madam,  I  know,  will  not  allow.     What  is  said 


iSongCCV 


2  See  Song  LXVIl. 


of  illustrious  descent  is,  I  believe,  equally  true 
of  a  talent  for  poetry,  none  ever  despised  it  who 
had  pretensions  to  it.  The  fates  and  characters 
of  the  rhyming  tribe  often  employ  my  thoughts 
when  I  am  disposed  to  be  melancholy.  There 
is  not,  among  all  the  martyrologies  that  ever 
were  penned,  so  rueful  a  narrative  as  the  lives 
of  the  poets.  —  In  the  comparative  view  of 
wretches,  the  criterion  is  not  what  they  are 
doomed  to  suffer,  but  how  they  are  formed  to 
bear.  Take  a  being  of  our  kind,  give  him  a 
stronger  imagination  and  a  more  delicate  sensi- 
bility, which  between  them  will  ever  engender 
a  more  ungovernable  set  of  passions  than  are 
the  usual  lot  of  man  ;  implant  in  him  an  irre- 
sistible impulse  to  some  idle  vagary,  such  as 
arranging  wild  flowers  in  fantastical  nosegays, 
tracing  the  grasshopper  to  his  haunt  by  his 
chirping  song,  watching  the  frisks  of  the  little 
minnows  in  the  sunny  pool,  or  hunting  after  the 
intrigues  of  butterflies  —  in  short,  send  him 
adrift  after  some  pursuit  which  shall  eternally 
mislead  him  from  the  paths  of  lucre,  and  yet 
curse  him  with  a  keener  relish  than  any  man 
living  for  the  pleasures  that  lucre  can  purchase ; 
lastly,  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  woes  by  be- 
stowing on  him  a  spurning  sense  of  his  own 
dignity,  and  you  have  created  a  wight  nearly  as 
miserable  as  a  poet.  To  you,  Madam,  I  need 
not  recount  the  fairy  pleasures  the  muse  bestows 
to  counterbalance  this  catalogue  of  evils.  Be- 
witching poetry  is  like  bewitching  woman ;  she 
has  in  all  ages  been  accused  of  misleading  man- 
kind from  the  councils  of  wisdom  and  the  paths 
of  prudence,  involving  them  in  difficulties, 
baiting  them  with  poverty,  branding  them  with 
infamy,  and  plunging  them  in  the  whirling  vor- 
tex of  ruin ;  yet,  where  is  the  man  but  must 
own  that  all  our  happiness  on  earth  is  not  worthy 
the  name — that  even  the  holy  hermit's  solitary 
prospect  of  paradisiacal  bliss  is  but  the  glitter 
of  a  northern  sun  rising  over  a  frozen  region, 
compared  with  the  many  pleasures,  the  name- 
less raptures  that  we  owe  to  the  lovely  queen 
of  the  heart  of  man  !  R.  B. 


CCLXX. 

TO  LADY   GLENCAIRN. 

[Bums,  as  the  concluding  paragraph  of  this  lettet 
proves,  continued  to  the  last  years  of  his  life  to  think  of 
the  composition  of  a  Scottish  drama,  which  Sir  Walter 


OF   KOBEKT   BUKNS. 


4^ 


8ntt  laments  he  did  not  write,  instead  of  pouring  oit 
multitudes  of  lyrics  for  Johnson  and  Thomson.] 

My  Lady, 
Thk  honour  you  have  done  your  poor  poet,  in 
writing  him  so  very  obliging  a  letter,  and  the 
pleasure  the  enclosed  beautiful  verses  have 
given  him,  came  very  seasonably  to  his  aid, 
amid  the  cheerless  gloom  and  sinking  despond- 
ency of  diseased  nerves  and  December  weather. 
As  to  forgetting  the  family  of  Glencairn,  Heaven 
is  my  witness  with  what  sincerity  I  could  use 
those  old  verses  which  please  me  more  in  their 
rude  simplicity  than  the  most  elegant  lines  I 
ever  saw. 

"  If  thee,  Jerusalem,  I  forget, 
Skill  part  from  my  right  hand. 

My  tongue  to  my  mouth's  roof  let  cleave, 

If  I  do  thee  forget, 
Jerusalem,  and  thee  above 

My  chief  joy  do  not  set." — 

When  I  am  tempted  to  do  anything  improper, 
I  dare  not,  because  I  look  on  myself  as  account- 
able to  your  ladyship  and  family.  Now  and 
then,  when  I  have  the  honour  to  be  called  to 
the  tables  of  the  great,  if  I  happen  to  meet  with 
any  mortification  from  the  stately  stupidity  of 
self-sufl&cient  squires,  or  the  luxurious  insolence 
of  upstart  nabobs,  I  get  above  the  creatures  by 
calling  to  remembrance  that  I  am  patronized 
by  the  noble  house  of  Glencairn ;  and  at  gala- 
times,  such  as  new-year's  day,  a  christening,  or 
the  kirn-night,  when  my  punch-bowl  is  brought 
from  its  dusty  corner  and  filled  up  in  honour  of 
the  occasion,  I  begin  with, — The  Countess  of 
Glencairn  !  My  good  woman  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  grateful  heart,  next  cries.  My  Lord !  and 
80  the  toast  goes  on  until  I  end  with  Lady  Har- 
rietts little  angel!  whose  epithalamium  I  have 
pledged  myself  to  write. 

When  I  received  your  ladyship's  letter,  I  was 
just  in  the  act  of  transcribing  for  you  some  verses 
I  have  lately  composed  ;  and  meant  to  have  sent 
them  my  first  leisure  hour,  and  acquainted  you 
with  my  late  change  of  life.  I  mentioned  to 
my  lord  my  fears  concerning  my  farm.  Those 
fears  were  indeed  too  true ;  it  is  a  bargain 
would  have  ruined  me,  but  for  the  lucky  circum- 
Itance  of  my  having  an  excise  commission. 

People  may  talk  as  they  please,  of  the  igno- 
miny of  the  excise ;  50/.  a  year  will  support  my 
wife  and  children,  and  keep  me  independent  of 
the  world ;  and  I  would  much  rather  have  it 
Raid  that  my  profession  borrowed  ore  lit  from 
me,  than  that  I  borrowed  credit  from  my  pro- 


fession. Another  advantage  I  have  in  thii 
business,  is  the  knowledge  it  gives  me  of  the 
various  shades  of  human  character,  consequently 
assisting  me  vastly  in  my  poetic  pursuits.  I 
had  the  most  ardent  enthusiasm  for  the  museg 
when  nobody  knew  me,  but  myself,  and  that 
ardour  is  by  no  means  cooled  now  that  my  lord 
Glencairn's  goodness  has  introduced  me  to  all 
the  world.  Not  that  I  am  in  haste  for  the  press. 
I  have  no  idea  of  publishing,  else  I  certainly 
had  consulted  my  noble  generous  patron ;  but 
after  acting  the  part  of  an  honest  man,  and 
supporting  my  family,  my  whole  wishes  and 
views  are  directed  to  poetic  pursuits.  I  am 
aware  that  though  I  were  to  give  performances 
to  the  world  superior  to  my  former  works,  still 
if  they  were  of  the  same  kind  with  those,  the 
comparative  reception  they  would  meet  with 
would  mortify  me.  I  have  turned  my  thoughts 
on  the  drama.  I  do  not  mean  the  stately  buskin 
of  the  tragic  muse. 

*  *  *  -x- 

Does  not  your  ladyship  think  that  an  Edin- 
burgh theatre  would  be  more  amused  with  affec- 
tation, folly,  and  whim  of  true  Scottish  growth, 
than  manners  which  by  far  the  greatest  part 
of  the  audience  can  only  know  at  second 
hand? 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

Your  ladyship's  ever  devoted 
And  grateful  humble  servant, 
R.  B 


CCLXXI. 
TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

[Peter  Pindar,  the  name  under  which  it  was  the  p.ea- 
sure  of  that  bitter  but  vulgar  satirist,  Dr.  Wolcot,  to 
write,  was  a  man  of  little  lyrical  talent.  He  purchased 
a  good  annuity  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  by  tae  copy- 
right of  his  works,  and  survived  his  popularity  ntany 
years.] 

Sept,  1793. 

You  may  readily  trust,  my  dear  Sir,  that  any 
exertion  in  my  power  is  heartily  at  your  service. 
But  one  thing  I  must  hint  to  you ;  the  very 
name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  of  great  service  to  your 
publication,  so  get  a  verse  from  him  now  and 
then ;  though  I  have  no  objection,  as  well  as  I 
can,  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  business. 

You  know  that  my  pretensions  to  musical 
taste  are  merely  a  few  of  nature's  instincts, 
untaught  and  untutored  by  art.  For  this  rea- 
son, many  musical  compositions,  particularlv 


168 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


where  much  of  the  merit  lies  in  counterpoint, 
however  they  may  transport  and  ravish  the  ears 
of  your  connoisseurs,  aflFect  my  simple  lug  no 
otherwise  than  merely  as  melodious  din.  On 
the  other  hand,  by  way  of  amends,  I  am  de- 
lighted with  many  little  melodies,  which  the 
learned  musician  despises  as  silly  and  insipid. 
I  do  not  know  whether  the  old  air  "  Hey  tuttie 
taitie,"  may  rank  among  this  number ;  but  well 
I  know  that,  with  Frazer's  haut-boy,  it  has 
often  filled  my  eyes  with  tears.  There  is  a 
tradition,  which  I  have  met  with  in  many  places 
m  Scotland,  that  it  was  Robert  Bruce's  march 
at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn.  This  thought, 
in  yesternight's  evening  walk,  warmed  me  to  a 
pitch  of  enthusiasm  on  the  theme  of  liberty  and 
independence,  which  I  threw  into  a  kind  of 
Scottish  ode,  fitted  to  the  air,  that  one  might 
suppose  to  be  the  gallant  Royal  Scot's  address 
to  his  heroic  followers  on  the  eventful  morning. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled.* 

So  may  God  ever  defend  the  cause  of  truth 
and  liberty,  as  he  did  that  day !    Amen. 

P.  S.  I  showed  the  air  to  Urbani,  who  was 
highly  pleased  with  it,  and  begged  me  to  make 
soft  verses  for  it ;  but  I  had  no  idea  of  giving 
myself  any  trouble  on  the  subject,  till  the  acci- 
dental recollection  of  that  glorious  struggle  for 
freedom,  associated  with  the  glowing  ideas  of 
some  other  struggles  of  the  same  nature,  not 
quite  so  ancient,  roused  my  rhyming  mania. 
Clarke's  set  of  the  tune,  with  his  bass,  you  will 
find  in  the  Museum,  though  I  am  afraid  that 
the  air  is  not  what  will  entitle  it  to  a  place  in 
your  elegant  selection.  R.  B. 


CCLXXII. 

TO  MR.    THOMSON. 

[This  letter  contains  further  proof  of  the  love  of  Burng 
for  tne  airs  of  the  Highlands.] 

Sept.  1793. 
I  DARE  say,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you  will  begin 
to  think  my  correspondence  is  persecution.  No 
matter,  I  can't  help  it ;  a  ballad  is  my  hobby- 
horse, which,  though  otherwise  a  simple  sort 
of  harmless  idiotical  beast  enough,  has  yet  this 
blessed  headstrong  property,  that  when  once  it 


»  Song  CCVII. 


2SongCCVIII. 


has  fairly  made  off  with  a  hapless  wight,  it  gets 
so  enamoured  with  the  tinkle-gingle,  tinkle- 
gingle  of  its  own  bells,  that  it  is  sure  to  run 
poor  pilgarlick,  the  bedlam  jockey,  quite  be- 
yond any  useful  point  or  post  in  the  common 
race  of  men. 

The  following  song  I  have  composed  for 
"  Oran-gaoil,"  the  Highland  air  that,  you  tell 
me  in  your  last,  you  ha  ye  resolved  to  give  a 
place  to  in  your  book.  I  have  this  moment 
finished  the  song,  so  you  have  it  glowing  from 
the  mint.  If  it  suit  you,  well ! — If  not,  'tis  also 
well! 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive ! 

R.  B. 


ccLxxin. 

TO   MR.   THOMSON. 

[This  is  another  of  the  sagacious  letters  on  Scottish 
song,  which  poets  and  musicians  would  do  well  to  read 
and  consider.] 

Sept.  1793. 

I  HAVE  received  your  list,  my  dear  Sir,  and 
here  go  my  observations  on  it.*^ 

"Down  the  burn,  Davie."  I  have  this  mo- 
ment tried  an  alteration,  leaving  out  the  last 
half  of  the  third  stanza,  and  the  first  half  of  the 
last  stanza,  thus : 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 

And  thro'  the  flowery  dale ; 
His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  love  was  aye  the  tale. 
With  "Mary,  when  shall  we  return, 

Sic  pleasure  to  renew  ?" 
Quoth  Mary,  "  Love,  I  like  the  burn, 

And  aye  shall  follow  you."* 

"  Thro'  the  wood,  laddie" — I  am  decidedly  of 
opinion  that  both  in  this,  and  "  There'll  never 
be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame,"  the  second  or 
high  part  of  the  tune  being  a  repetition  of  the 
first  part  an  octave  higher,  is  only  for  instru- 
mental music,  and  would  be  much  better  omit- 
ted in  singing. 

"  Cowden-knowes."  Remember  in  your  indej 
that  the  song  in  pure  English  to  this  tune,  be- 
ginning, 

"  When  summer  comes,  the  swains  on  Tweed," 

3  Mr.  Thomson's  list  of  songs  for  his  publication. 
<  This  is  an  alteration  of  one  of  Crawfurd's  sonfs 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


4T>U 


is  the  pre  Juction  of  Crawfurd.  Robert  was  his 
Christian  name.' 

**  Laddie,  lie  near  me,"  must  lie  by  me  for 
some  time.  I  do  not  know  the  air ;  and  until  I 
am  complete  master  of  a  tune,  In  my  own  singing 
(such  as  it  is),  I  can  never  compose  for  it.  My 
way  is  :  I  consider  the  poetic  sentiment  corre- 
spondent to  my  idea  of  the  musical  expression ; 
then  choose  my  theme ;  begin  one  stanza :  when 
that  is  composed,  which  is  generally  the  most 
difficult  part  of  the  business,  I  walk  out,  sit 
down  now  and  then,  look  out  for  objects  of  na- 
ture around  me  that  are  in  unison  and  harmony 
with  the  cogitations  of  my  fancy,  and  workings 
of  my  bosom  ;  humming  every  now  and  then  the 
air  with  the  verses  I  have  framed.  When  I  feel  my 
muse  beginning  to  jade,  I  retire  to  the  solitary 
fire-side  of  my  study,  and  there  commit  my  eflFu- 
sions  to  paper;  swinging  at  intervals  on  the 
hind-legs  of  my  elbow-chair,  by  way  of  calling 
forth  my  own  critical  strictures  as  my  pen  goes 
on.  Seriously,  this,  at  home,  is  almost  invari- 
ably my  way. 

What  cursed  egotism ! 

"  Gil  Morice"  I  am  for  leaving  out.  It  is  a 
plaguy  length ;  the  air  itself  is  never  sung ;  and 
its  place  can  well  be  supplied  by  one  or  two 
Bongs  for  fine  airs  that  are  not  in  your  list — for 
instance  "  Craigieburn-wood"  and  "  Roy's  wife." 
The  first,  beside  its  intrinsic  merit,  has  novelty, 
and  the  last  has  high  merit  as  well  as  great 
celebrity.  I  have  the  original  words  of  a  song 
for  the  last  air,  in  the  handwriting  of  the  lady 
who  composed  it ;  and  they  are  superior  to  any 
edition  of  the  song  which  the  public  has  yet 
seen. 

"Highland  laddie."  The  old  set  will  please 
a  mere  Scotch  ear  best ;  and  the  new  an  Italian- 
ised one.  There  is  a  third,  and  what  Oswald 
calls  the  old  "  Highland  laddie,"  which  pleases 
me  more  than  either  of  them.  It  is  sometimes 
called  •'  Gingliri  Johnnie ;"  it  being  the  air  of  an 
old  humorous  tawdry  song  of  that  name.  You 
will  find  it  in  the  Museum,  "I  hae  been  at 
Crookieden,"  &c.  I  would  advise  you,  in  the 
musical  quandary,  to  offer  up  your  prayers  to 
the  muses  for  inspiring  direction ;  and  in  the 
gaeantime,  waiting  for  this  direction,  bestow  a 
libation  to  Bacchus ;  and  there  is  not  a  doubt 
but  you  will  hit  on  a  judicious  choice.  Proba- 
turn  est. 

1  His  Christian  name  was  William. 
1  Song  CXCV. 


«*  Auld  Sir  Simon"  I  must  beg  you  to  leave 
out,  and  put  in  its  place  "  The  Quaker's  wife." 

«'  Blythe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill,"2  is  one  of 
the  finest  songs  ever  I  made  in  my  life,  and,  be- 
sides, is  composed  on  a  young  lady,  positively 
the  most  beautiful,  lovely  woman  in  the  world 
As  I  purpose  giving  you  the  names  and  desig- 
nations of  all  my  heroines,  to  appear  in  some 
future  edition  of  your  work,  perhaps  half  a 
century  hence,  you  must  certainly  include  "  The 
bonniest  lass  in  a'  the  warld,"  in  your  col- 
lection. 

♦<  Dainty  Davie"  I  have  heard  sung  nineteen 
thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  times, 
and  always  with  the  chorus  to  the  low  part  of 
the  tune ;  and  notliing  has  surprised  me  so 
much  as  your  opinion  on  this  subject.  If  it  will 
not  suit  as  I  proposed,  we  will  lay  two  of  the 
stanzas  together,  and  then  make  the  chorus  fol- 
low, exactly  as  Lucky  Nancy  in  the  Museum. 

"  Fee  him,  father :"  I  enclose  you  Frazer'a 
set  of  this  tune  when  he  plays  it  slow :  in  fact 
he  makes  it  the  language  of  despair.  I  shall 
here  give  you  two  stanzas,  in  that  style,  merely 
to  try  if  it  will  be  any  improvement.  Were  it 
possible,  in  singing,  to  give  it  half  the  pathoi 
which  Frazer  gives  it  in  playing,  it  would  make 
an  admirably  pathetic  song.  I  do  not  give 
these  verses  for  any  merit  they  have.  I  com- 
posed them  at  the  time  in  which  '<  Patie  Allan's 
mither  died — that  was  about  the  back  o'  mid- 
night ;"  and  by  the  lee-side  of  a  bowl  of  punch, 
which  had  overset  every  mortal  in  company  ex- 
cept the  hautbois  and  the  muse. 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie.' 

**  Jockie  and  Jenny"  I  would  discard,  and  in 
its  place  would  put  "  There's  nae  luck  about 
the  house,"^  which  has  a  very  pleasant  air,  and 
which  is  positively  the  finest  love-ballad  in  that 
style  in  the  Scottish,  or  perhaps  in  any  other 
language.  •'  When  she  came  ben  she  bobbit," 
as  an  air  is  more  beautiful  than  either,  and  in 
the  andante  way  would  unite  with  a  charming 
sentimental  ballad. 

•♦  Saw  ye  my  father  ?"'  is  one  of  my  greatest 
favourites.  The  evening  before  last,  I  wandered 
out,  and  began  a  tender  song,  in  what  I  think 
is  its  native  style.  I  must  premise  that  the  old 
way,  and  the  way  to  give  most  effect,  is  to  have 
no  starting  note,  as  the  fiddlers  call  it,  but  to 

»  Song  CCIX. 

4  By  William  Juhus  MickM 


470 


GENEEAL   CORKESPONDENCE 


burst  at  once  into  the  pathos.     Every  country 
girl  sings  "  Saw  ye  my  father  ?"  &c. 

My  song  is  but  just  begun ;  and  I  should  like, 
before  I  proceed,  to  know  your  opinion  of  it. 
I  have  sprinkled  it  with  the  Scottish  dialect, 
but  it  may  be  easily  turned  into  correct  Eng- 
lish.' 

"  Todlin  hame."  Urbani  mentioned  an  idea 
of  his,  which  has  long  been  mine,  that  this  air 
is  highly  susceptible  of  pathos  :  accordingly, 
you  will  soon  hear  him  at  your  concert  try  it 
to  a  song  of  mine  in  the  Museum,  "Ye  banks 
and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon."  One  song  more  and 
I  have  done;  "Auld  lang  syne."  The  air  is 
but  mediocre;  but  the  following  song,  the  old 
song  of  the  olden  times,  and  which  has  never 
been  in  print,  nor  even  in  manuscript,  until  I 
took  it  down  from  an  old  man's  singing,  is 
enough  to  recommend  any  air.  2 

Now,  I  suppose,  I  have  tried  your  patience 
fairly.  You  must,  after  all  is  over,  have  a 
number  of  ballads,  properly  so  called.  "  Gil 
Morice,"  '*  Tranent  Muir,"  "  Macpherson's  fare- 
well," "Battle  of  Sherriff-muir,"  or,  "We  ran, 
and  they  ran,"  (I  know  the  author  of  this  charm- 
ing ballad,  and  his  history,)  "Hardiknute," 
"  Barbara  Allan"  (I  can  furnish  a  finer  set  of 
this  tune  than  any  that  has  yet  appeared  ;)  and 
besides  do  you  know  that  I  really  have  the  old 
tune  to  which  "  The  cherry  and  the  slae"  was 
sung,  and  which  is  mentioned  as  a  well-known 
air  in  "  Scotland's  Complaint,"  a  book  published 
before  poor  Mary's  days  ?^  It  was  then  called 
"The  banks  of  Helicon;"  an  old  poem  which 
Pinkerton  has  brought  to  light.  You  will  see 
all  this  in  Tytler's  history  of  Scottish  music. 
The  tune,  to  a  learned  ear,  may  have  no  great 
merit ;  but  it  is  a  great  curiosity.  I  have  a 
good  many  original  things  of  this  kind. 

R.  B. 


CCLXXIV. 

TO  MR.    THOMSON. 

iBurns  listened  too  readily  to  the  suggestion  of  Thom- 
son, to  alter  "  Bruce's  Address  to  his  troops  at  Bannock- 
purn  :"  whatever  may  be  the  merits  of  the  air  of  «'  Louis 
Bordon,"  the  sublime  simplicity  of  the  words  was  in- 

>  The  song  here  alluded  to  is  one  which  the  poet  after- 
Mrards  sent  in  an  entire  form  : — 

"Where  are  the  joys  I  hae  met  m  the  morning." 
2  Bong  CCX. 


jured  by  the  alteration:  It  is  now  sung  as  originallf 
written,  by  a.l  singers  of  taste  .J 

September,  1793. 

I  AM  happy,  my  dear  Sir,  that  my  ode  pleases 
you  so  much.  Your  idea,  "honour's  bed,"  is, 
though  a  beautiful,  a  hackneyed  idea;  so,  if 
you  please,  we  will  let  the  line  stand  as  it  is. 
I  have  altered  the  song  as  follows : — * 

N.  B.  I  have  borrowed  the  last  stanza  from 
the  common  stall  edition  of  Wallace — 

"  A  fa  se  usurper  sinks  in  every  foe, 
And  liberty  returns  with  every  blow. 

A  couplet  worthy  of  Homer.  Yesterday  you 
had  enough  of  my  correspondence.  The  post 
goes,  and  my  head  aches  miserably.  One  com- 
fort !  I  sUflFer  so  much,  just  now,  in  this  world, 
for  last  night's  joviality,  that  I  shall  escape 
scot-free  for  it  in  the  world  to  come.     Amen. 

R.  B. 


CCLXXV. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  poet's  good  sense  rose  at  last  in  arms  against  the 
criticisms  of  the  musician,  and  he  refused  to  lessen  the 
dignity  of  his  war-ode  by  any  more  alterations.] 

September,  1793. 

"  Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree  ?" 
My  ode  pleases  me  so  much  that  I  cannot  alter 
it.  Your  proposed  alterations  would,  in  my 
opinion,  make  it  tame.  I  am  exceedingly  obliged 
to  you  for  putting  me  on  reconsidering  it,  as  I 
think  I  have  much  improved  it.  Instead  of 
"sodger!  hero!"  I  will  have  it  "Caledonian, 
on  wi'  me !" 

I  have  scrutinized  it  over  and  over ;  and  to 
the  world,  some  way  or  other,  it  shall  go  as  it 
is.  At  the  same  time  it  will  not  in  the  least 
hurt  me,  should  you  leave  it  out  altogether,  and 
adhere  to  your  first  intention  of  adopting  Logan't 
verses. 

I  have  finished  my  song  to  "  Saw  ye  my  fa- 
ther ?"  and  in  English,  as  you  will  see.  That 
there  is  a  syllable  too  much  for  the  expression 
of  the  air,  is  true ;  but,  allow  me  to  say,  that 
the  mere  dividing  of  a  dotted  crotchet  into  a 
crotchet  and  a  quaver,  is  not  a  great  matter : 
however,  in  that  I  have  no  pretensions  to  cope 
in  judgment  with  you.     Of  the  poetry  I  speak 

3  A  curious  and  rare  book,  which  Leyden  afterward! 
edited. 

4  Song  CCVII. 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


471 


irith  confidence;  but  the  music  is  a  business 
where  I  hint  my  ideas  with  the  utmost  diffi- 
dence. 

The  old  verses  have  merit,  though  unequal, 
and  are  popular  :  my  advice  is  to  set  the  air  to 
the  old  words,  and  let  mine  follow  as  English 
verses.     Here  they  are : — 

Where  are  the  joys  I  have  met  in  the  morn- 
ing?' 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir  !  the  post  goes,  so  I  shall 
defer  some  other  remarks  until  more  leisure. 

R.  B. 


CCLXXVI. 
TO   MR.   THOMSON. 

[For  "  Fy  !  let  us  a'  to  the  bridal,"  and  "  Fy  !  gie  me 
my  coggie,  Sirs,"  and  '<  There's  nae  luck  about  the 
house,"  Burns  puts  in  a  word  of  praise,  from  a  feeling 
that  Thomson's  taste  would  induce  him  to  exclude  the 
first — one  of  our  most  original  songs — from  his  collec- 
tion.] 

September,  1793. 

I  HAVE  been  turning  over  some  volumes  of 
songs,  to  find  verses  whose  measures  would  suit 
the  airs  for  which  you  have  allotted  me  to  find 
English  songs. 

For  "  Muirland  Willie,"  you  have,  in  Ram- 
say's Tea-Table,  an  excellent  song  beginning, 
*'  Ah,  why  those  tears  in  Nelly's  eyes  ?"  As  for 
"The  Collier's  Dochter,"  take  the  following  old 
bacchanal : — 

"  Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure,  &c."* 

The  faulty  line  in  Logan-Water,  I  mend 
thus: 

How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry  ? 

The  song  otherwise  will  pass.  As  to  "  M'Gre- 
gcira  Rua-Ruth,"  you  will  see  a  song  of  mine 
to  it,  with  a  set  of  the  air  superior  to  yours,  in 
th»  Museum,  vol.  ii.  p.  181.     The  song  begins, 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing.* 

Your  Irish  airs  are  pretty,  but  they  are  rank 
Irish.  If  they  were  like  the  "  Banks  of  Ban- 
na," for  instance,  though  really  Irish,  yet  in  the 
Scottish  taste,  you  might  adopt  them.  Since 
^ou  are  so  fond  of  Irish  music,  what  say  you  to 


SoMT  CCXI. 


s  Song  LIT. 


a  Song  CCXII. 


twenty-five  of  them  in  an  additional  number  ? 
We  could  easily  find  this  quantity  of  charming 
airs  ;  I  will  take  care  that  you  shall  not  warn 
songs  ;  and  I  assure  you  that  you  would  find  it 
the  most  saleable  of  the  whole.  If  you  dc  njt 
approve  of  "  Roy's  wife,"  for  the  music's  sake, 
we  shall  not  insert  it.  "  Deil  tak  the  wars"  is 
a  charming  song;  so  is,  "Saw  ye  my  Peggy?" 
"There's  nae  luck  about  the  house"  well  de- 
serves a  place.  I  cannot  say  that  "  O'er  the 
hills  and  far  awa"  strikes  me  as  equal  to  your 
selection.  "  This  is  no  my  ain  house,"  is  a  great 
favourite  air  of  mine ;  and  if  you  will  send  me 
your  set  of  it,  I  will  task  my  muse  to  her  highest 
effort.  What  is  your  opinion  of  "  I  hae  laid  a 
herrin'  in  saut?"  I  like  it  much.  Your  Jaco- 
bite airs  are  pretty,  and  there  are  many  others 
of  the  same  kind  pretty ;  but  you  have  not  room 
for  them.  You  cannot,  I  think,  insert  "Fy! 
let's  a'  to  the  bridal,"  to  any  other  words  than 
its  own. 

What  pleases  me,  as  simple  and  naive,  dis- 
gusts you  as  ludicrous  and  low.  For  this  rea- 
son, "  Fy !  gie  me  my  coggie.  Sirs,"  "  Fy !  let's 
a'  to  the  bridal,"  with  several  others  of  that 
cast,  are  to  me  highly  pleasing ;  while,  "Saw 
ye  my  father,  or  saw  ye  my  mother  ?"  delights 
me  with  its  descriptive  simple  pathos.  Thus 
my  song,  "  Ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  mill  has 
gotten  ?"  pleases  myself  so  much,  that  I  cannot 
try  my  hand  at  another  song  to  the  air,  so  I 
shall  not  attempt  it.  I  know  you  will  laugh  at 
all  this  ;  aut  "  ilka  man  wears  his  belt  his  ain 
gait."  R.  B 


CCLXXVII. 


TO   MR.   THOMSON. 

[Of  the  Hon.  Andrew  Erskine  an  account  was  commu- 
nicated in  a  letter  to  Burns  by  Thomson,  which  the  wri- 
ter has  withheld.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  talent,  and 
joint  projector  of  Thomson's  now  celebrated  work.j 

October,  1793. 
YouE  last  letter,  my  dear  Thomson,  wa« 
indeed  laden  with  heavy  news.  Alas,  poor 
Erskine  !*  The  recollection  that  he  was  a  co- 
adjutator  in  your  publication,  has  till  now  scared 
me  from  writing  to  you,  or  turning  my  thoughts 
on  composing  for  you. 

<  "  The  honourable  AndrewErskine,  whose  melancholf 
death  Mr.  Thomson  had  communicated  in  an  excellpo 
letter,  which  he  has  suppressed.'' — Ccsris. 


172 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


I  am  pleased  that  you  are  reconciled  to  the 
air  of  the  "  Quaker's  wife ;"  though,  by  the  bye, 
au  old  Highland  gentleman,  and  a  deep  anti- 
quarian, tells  me  it  is  a  Gaelic  air,  and  known 
by  the  name  of  "Leigerm'  choss."  The  follow- 
ing verses,  I  hope,  will  please  you,  as  an  English 
8ong  to  the  air. 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair : ' 

Your  objection  to  the  English  song  I  pro- 
posed for  "John  Anderson  my  jo,"  is  certainly 
just.  The  following  is  by  an  old  acquaintance 
of  mine,  and  I  think  has  merit.  The  song  was 
never  in  print,  which  I  think  is  so  much  in  your 
favour.  The  more  original  good  poetry  your 
collection  contains,  it  certainly  has  so  much  the 
more  merit. 

SONG— BY  GAVIN  TURNBULL.3 
Oh,  condescend,  dear  charming  maid, 

My  wretclied  state  to  view ; 
A  tender  swain,  to  love  betray'd, 

And  sad  despair,  by  you. 

While  here,  all  melancholy, 

My  passion  I  deplore, 
Yet,  urg'd  by  stern,  resistless  fate, 

I  love  thee  more  and  more. 

I  heard  of  love,  and  with  disdain 

The  urchin's  power  denied. 
I  laugh'd  at  every  lover's  pain. 

And  mock'd  them  when  they  sigh'd. 

liut  how  my  state  is  alter'd  ! 

Those  happy  days  are  o'er; 
For  all  thy  unrelenting  hate, 

I  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Oh,  yield,  illustrious  beauty,  yield  ! 

No  longer  let  me  mourn ; 
And  though  victorious  in  the  field, 

Thy  captive  do  not  scorn. 

Let  generous  pity  warm  thee, 

My  wonted  peace  restore ; 
And  grateful  I  shall  bless  thee  still, 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 

The  following  address  of  Turnbull's  to  the 
Nightingale  will  suit  as  an  English  song  to  the 
air  "There  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair."  By 
the  bye,  Turnbull  has  a  great  many  songs  in 
MS.,  which  I  can  command,  if  you  like  his 
manner.  Possibly,  as  he  is  an  old  friend  of 
mine,  I  may  be  prejudiced  in  his  favour ;  but  I 
like  some  of  his  pieces  very  much. 

THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Thou  sweetest  minstrel  of  the  grove, 
That  ever  tried  the  plaintive  strain, 


Awake  thy  tender  tale  of  love, 
And  soothe  a  poor  forsaken  swam. 

For  though  the  muses  deign  to  aid 
And  teach  him  smoothly  to  complain, 

Yet  Delia,  charming,  cruel  maid. 
Is  deaf  to  her  forsaken  swain. 

All  day,  with  fashion's  gaudy  sons, 
In  sport  she  wanders  o'er  the  plaia: 

Their  tales  approves,  and  still  she  shuns 
The  notes  of  her  forsaken  swain. 

When  evening  shades  obscure  the  sky, 
And  bring  the  solemn  hours  again, 

Begin,  sweet  bird,  thy  melody, 
And  soothe  a  poor  forsaken  swain. 

I  shall  just  transcribe  another  of  Turnbull*8, 
which  would  go  charmingly  to  "  Lewie  Gordon.* 

LAURA. 

Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
By  shady  wood,  or  winding  rill ; 
Where  the  sweetest  May-born  flowers 
Paint  the  meadows,  deck  the  bowers  ; 
Where  the  linnet's  early  song 
Echoes  sweet  the  woods  among : 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

If  at  rosy  dawn  I  choose 
To  indulge  the  smiling  muse; 
If  I  court  some  cool  retreat. 
To  avoid  the  noontide  heat ; 
If  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Thro'  unfrequented  wilds  I  stray  ; 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

When  at  night  the  drowsy  god 
Waves  his  sleep-compelling  rod, 
And  to  fancy's  wakeful  eyes 
Bids  celestial  visions  rise, 
While  with  boundless  joy  I  rove 
Thro'  the  fairy  land  of  love; 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
'  Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

The  rest  of  your  letter  I  shall  answer  at  som* 
other  opportunity.  R.  B. 


ccLXXvrn. 
TO  JOHN   M'MURDO,  ESQ., 

WITH   A   PARCEL. 

[The  collection  of  songs  alluded  to  in  this  letter,  are 
only  known  to  the  curious  in  loose  lore :   they  were 


'  ®°"g  CCXIII.  volume,  published  at  Glasgow,  m  1788,  under  the  title  oJ 

a  Gavin  Turnbull  was  the  author  of  a  now  forgotten  i  "  Poetical  Essays." 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


47^ 


printed  by  an  obscure  bookseller,  but  not  before  death  had 
Mcured  him  from  the  indiG:nation  of  Burns.] 


SlE, 


Dumfries,  [^December,  1793.] 


'Tisj  said  that  we  take  the  greatest  liberties 
with  aur  greatest  friends,  and  I  pay  myself  a 
Tery  high  compliment  in  the  manner  in  which  I 
Am  going  to  apply  the  remark.  I  have  owed 
you  money  longer  than  ever  I  owed  it  to  any 
man.  Here  is  Kerr's  account,  and  here  are  the 
six  guineas  ;  and  now  I  don't  owe  a  shilling  to 

man — or  woman  either.     But  for  these  d d 

dirty,  dog's-ear'd  little  pages,'  I  had  done  my- 
eelf  the  honour  to  have  waited  on  you  long  ago. 
Independent  of  the  obligations  your  hospitality 
^as  laid  me  under,  the  consciousness  of  your 
luperiority  in  the  rank  of  man  and  gentleman, 
if  itself  was  fully  as  much  as  I  could  ever  make 
lead  against ;  but  to  owe  you  money  too,  was 
acre  than  I  could  face. 

I  think  I  once  mentioned  something  to  you 
f  a  collection  of  Scots  songs  I  have  for  some 
-ears  been  making :   I  send  you  a  perusal  of 
fhat  I  have  got  together.     I  could  not  conve- 
/uently  spare  them  above  five  or  six  days,  and 
five  or  six  glances  of  them  will  probably  more 
than  suffice  you.     When  you  are  tired  of  them, 
please  leave  them  with  Mr.  Clint,  of  the  King's 
Arms.     There  is  not  another  copy  of  the  col- 
lection in  the  wo.-ld ;  and  I  should  be  sorry  that 
*ny  unfortunate  ne^^igence  should  deprive  me 
of  what  has  cost  mc  a  ^oud  deal  of  pains. 
I  have  i>e  ^  Ok-juv  to  be,  &c. 
R.  B. 


CCLXXIX. 


TO  JOHN   M'MURDO,   ESQ., 

DKUMLANBia. 

[These  words,  thrown  into  the  form  of  a  note,  ce 
copied  from  a  blank  leaf  of  the  poet's  works,  published  in 
two  volumes,  small  octavo,  in  1793.] 

Dumfries,  1793. 
Will  Mr.  M'Murdo  do  me  the  favour  to  accept 
of  these  volumes ;  a  trifling  but  sincere  mark 
of  the  very  high  respect  I  bear  for  his  worth  as 
B  man,  h\3  manners  as  a  gentleman,  and  his 
kindness  as  a  friend.  However  inferior  now,  or 
afterwards,  I  may  rank  as  a  poet ;  one  honest 
virtue  to  which  few  poets  can  pietend,  I  trust 

I  Scottish  Bank  notM. 


I  shall  ever  claim  as  mine : — to  no  man,  what- 
ever his  station  in  life,  or  his  power  to  serve 
me,  have  I  ever  paid  a  compliment  at  the 
expense  of  teuth. 

The  Authoe. 


CCLXXX. 


TO   CAPTAIN 


[This  excellent  letter,  obtained  from  Stewart  of  Dal- 
guise,  is  copied  from  my  kind  friend  Chambers's  collec- 
tion of  Scottish  songs.] 


SlE, 


Dumfries^  5th  December^  1793. 


Heated  as  I  was  with  wine  yesternight,  I 
was  perhaps  rather  seemingly  impertinent  in 
my  anxious  wish  to  be  honoured  with  your  ac- 
quaintance. You  will  forgive  it :  it  was  the 
impulse  of  heart-felt  respect.  "  He  is  the  fa- 
ther of  the  Scottish  county  reform,  and  is  a 
man  who  does  honour  to  the  business,  at  the 
same  time  that  the  business  does  honour  to  him," 
said  my  worthy  friend  Glenriddel  to  somebody 
by  me  who  was  talking  of  your  coming  to  this 
county  with  your  corps.  "  Then,"  I  said,  "  I 
have  a  woman's  longing  to  take  him  by  the  hand, 
and  say  to  him,  *  Sir,  I  honour  you  as  a  man 
to  whom  the  interests  of  humanity  are  dear,  and 
as  a  patriot  to  whom  the  rights  of  your  country 
are  sacred.' " 

In  times  like  these,  Sir,  when  our  commoners 
are  barely  able  by  the  glimmer  of  their  own 
twilight  understandings  to  scrawl  a  frank,  and 
when    lords   are   what    gentlemen    would    be 
ashamed  to  be,  to  whom  shall  a  sinking  coun- 
try call  for  help?     To  the  independent  country 
I  gentleman.      To  him  who  has  too  deep  a  stake 
^  Ik  his  country  not  to  be  in  earnest  for  her  wel- 
\  fare ,  and  who  in  the  honest  pride  of  man  can 
view  with  equal  contempt  the  insolence  of  office 
and  the  allurements  of  corruption. 

I  mentioned  to  you  a  Scots  ode  or  song  I  had 
lately  composed,  and  which  I  think  has  some 
merit.  Allow  me  to  enclose  it.  When  I  fall 
in  with  you  at  the  theatre,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
have  your  opinion  of  it.  Accept  of  it,  Sir,  as 
a  very  humble  but  most  sincere  tribute  of  re- 
spect from  a  man,  who,  dear  as  he  prizes  poetio 
fame,  yet  holds  dearer  an  independent  mind. 
I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

K  B 


474 


GENERAL   CORBESPONDENCE 


CCLXXXI. 

TO    MRS.   RIDDEL, 

Who  was  about  to  bespeak  a  Play  one  evening  at 
the  Dumfries  Theatre. 

[This  clever  Indy,  to  whom  Burns  bo  happily  applies 
ihe  words  oi  Thomson,  died  in  the  year  1820,  at  Hampton 
Oourt.J 

I  AM  thinking  to  send  my  "  Address"  to  some 
periodical  publication,  but  it  has  not  yet  got 
your  sanction,  so  pray  look  over  it. 

As  to  the  Tuesday's  play,  let  me  beg  of  you, 
my  dear  madam,  to  give  us,  "  The  Wonder,  a 
Woman  keeps  a  Secret!"  to  which  please  add, 
"  The  Spoilt  Child  " — you  will  highly  oblige  me 
by  so  doing. 

Ah,  what  an  enviable  creature  you  are ! 
There  now,  this  cursed,  gloomy,  blue-devil  day, 
you  are  going  to  a  party  of  choice  spirits — 

•'  To  play  the  shapes 
Of  frolic  fancy,  and  incessant  form 
Those  rapid  pictures,  assembled  train 
Of  fleet  ideas,  never  join'd  before, 
Where  lively  wit  excites  to  gay  surprise; 
Or  folly-painting  humour,  grave  himself. 
Calls  laughter  forth,  deep-shaking  every  nerve." 
Thomson. 
But  as  you  rejoice  with  them  that  do  rejoice, 
do  also  remember  to  weep  with  them  that  weep, 
and  pity  your  melancholy  friend. 

R.  B. 


CCLXXXII. 


TO   A   LADY. 

IN   FAVOUR   OF   A   PLAYEE's    BENEFIT. 

[Tbe  name  of  the  lady  to  whom  this  letter  is  addressed, 
has  not  transpired.] 

Dumfries,  1794. 
Madam, 

You  were  so  very  good  as  to  promise  me  to 

honour  my  friend  with  your  presence  on  his 

benefit  night.     That  night  is  fixed  for  Friday 

tirst:  the  play  a  most  interesting  one!     "  The 

Way  to   Keep   Him."     I  have  the  pleasure  to 

know  Mr.   G.  well.      His  merit  as  an  actor  is 

generally  acknowledged.     He  has  genius  and 

worth  which  would  do  honour  to  patronage :  he 

is  a  poor  and  modest  man  ;  claims  which  from 

their  very  silence  have  the  more  forcible  power 

on  the  generous  heart.     Alas,  for  pity!    that 

from  the  indolence  of  those  who  have  the  good 

things  of  this  life  in  their  gift,  too  often  does 

brazen-fronted  importunity  snatch  that  boon, 


the  righful  due  of  retiring,  humble  want !  Of 
all  the  qualities  we  assign  to  the  author  and 
director  of  nature,  by  far  the  most  enviable  is — 
to  be  able  "to  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all  eyes." 
0  what  insignificant,  sordid  wretches  are  they, 
however  chance  may  have  loaded  them  with 
wealth,  who  go  to  their  graves,  to  their  magnifi- 
cent mausoleums,  with  hardly  the  consciousness 
of  having  made  one  poor  honest  heart  happy  I 

But  I  crave  your  pardon,  Madam ;  I  came  to 
beg,  not  to  preach.  R.  B. 


ccLxxxni. 


TO   THE   EARL  OF   BUCHAN, 

With  a  Copy  of  Bruce^s  Address  to  his  Troops  at 
Bannockburn. 

[This  fantastic  Earl  of  Buchan  died  a  few  years  ago  : 
when  he  was  put  into  the  family  burial-ground,  at  Dry- 
burgh,  his  head  was  laid  the  wrong  way,  which  Sir 
Walter  Scott  said  was  little  matter,  as  it  had  never  been 
quite  right  in  his  lifetime.] 

Dumfries,  I'Zth  January,  1794. 
My  Lord, 

Will  your  lordship  allow  me  to  present  you 
with  the  enclosed  little  composition  of  mine,  as 
a  small  tribute  of  gratitude  for  the  acquaintance 
with  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  honour  me  ? 
Independent  of  my  enthusiasm  as  a  Scotsman, 
I  have  rarely  met  with  anything  in  history 
which  interests  my  feelings  as  a  man,  equal  with 
the  story  of  Bannockburn.  On  the  one  hand,  a 
cruel,  but  able  usurper,  leading  on  the  finest 
army  in  Europe  to  extinguish  the  last  spark  of 
freedom  among  a  greatly-daring  and  greatly-in- 
jured people ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  despe- 
rate relics  of  a  gallant  nation,  devoting  them- 
selves to  rescue  their  bleeding  country,  or  perish 
with  her. 

Liberty !  thou  art  a  prize  truly  and  indeed 
invaluable !  for  never  canst  thou  be  too  dearly 
bought ! 

If  my  little  ode  has  the  honour  of  your  lord- 
ship's approbation,  it  will  gratify  my  highest  am« 
bition. 


I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 


R.  B. 


OF   KOBERT   BURNS. 


4/^ 


ccLxxxrv. 

TO  CAPTAIN   MILLER, 

DALSWINTON. 

(Captnin  Miller,  of  Dalswinton,  sat  in  the  House  of 
w  /mmons  for  the  DiimfrieB  district  of  boroughs.  Dal- 
IV ir''):  ins  passed  from  the  family  to  ray  friend  James 
M  A  pine  Leny,  Esq.] 

Dear  Sir, 
The  following  ode  is  on  a  subject  which  I 
know  you  by  no  means  regard  with  indifference. 
Oh,  Liberty, 

'«  Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  nature  gay, 
Giv'st  beauty  to  tiie  sun,  and  pleasure  to  the  day." 

Addison. 

It  does  me  so  much  good  to  meet  with  a  man 
whose  honest  bosom  glows  with  the  generous 
enthusiasm,  the  heroic  daring  of  liberty,  that  I 
could  not  forbear  sending  you  a  composition  of 
my  own  on  the  subject,  which  I  really  think  is 
in  my  best  manner. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

Dear  Sir,  &c. 

R.  B. 


CCLXXXV. 

TO   MRS.    RIDDEL. 

[The  dragon  guarding  the  Hesperian  fruit,  was  simply 
t  military  officer,  who,  with  the  courtesy  of  those  whose 
trade  is  arms,  paid  attention  to  the  lady.] 

Dear  Madam, 

I  MEANT  to  have  called  on  you  yesternight, 
hut  as  I  edged  up  to  your  box-door,  the  first 
object  which  greeted  my  view,  was  one  of  those 
lobster-coated  puppies,  sitting  like  another  dra- 
gon, guarding  the  Hesperian  fruit.  On  the  con- 
ditions and  capitulations  you  so  obligingly  offer, 
I  shall  certainly  make  my  weather-beaten  rustic 
phiz  a  part  of  your  box-furniture  on  Tuesday ; 
when  we  may  arrange  the  business  of  the  visit. 

Among  the  profusion  of  idle  compliments, 
which  insidious  craft,  or  unmeaning  folly,  in- 
cessantly offer  at  your  shrine — a  shrine,  how  far 
exalted  above  such  adoration — permit  me,  were 
it  but  for  rarity's  sake,  to  pay  you  the  honest 
tribute  of  a  warm  heart  and  an  independent 
mind  ;  and  to  assure  you,  that  I  am,  thou  most 
aminblc  and  most  accomplished  of  thy  sex,  with 
the  most  respectful  esteem,  and  fervent  regard, 
thine,  &o.  R.  B. 


OCLXXXVI. 

TO   MRS.   RIDDEL. 

rThe  patient  sons  of  order  and  prudence  seem  oftei 
t  >  have  stirred  the  poet  to  such  invectives  as  this  lettei 
exhibits.] 

I  WILL  wait  on  you,  my  ever-valued  friend, 
but  whether  in  the  morning  I  am  not  sure 
Sunday  closes  a  period  of  our  curst  revenue  bu- 
siness, and  may  probably  keep  me  employed 
with  my  pen  until  noon.  Fine  employment  for 
a  poet's  pen  !  There  is  a  species  of  the  human 
genus  that  I  call  the  gin-horse  class:  what  en- 
viable dogs  they  are !  Round,  and  round,  and 
round  they  go, — Mundell's  ox  that  drives  his 
cotton-mill  is  their  exact  prototype — without 
an  idea  or  wish  beyond  their  circle  ;  fat,  sleek, 
stupid,  patient,  quiet,  and  contented ;  while 
here  I  sit,  altogether  Novemberish,  a  d-mn'd 
melange  of  fretfulness  and  melancholy ;  not 
enough  of  the  one  to  rouse  me  to  passion,  nor 
of  the  other  to  repose  me  in  torpor,  my  soul 
flouncing  and  fluttering  round  her  tenement,  like 
a  wild  finch,  caught  amid  the  horrors  of  winter, 
and  newly  thrust  into  a  cage.  Well,  I  am  per- 
suaded that  it  was  of  me  the  Hebrew  sage 
prophesied,  when  he  foretold — "And  behold, 
on  whatsoever  this  man  doth  set  his  heart,  it 
shall  not  prosper !"  If  my  resentment  is  awaked, 
it  is  sure  to  be  where  it  dare  not  squeak :  and 
if ♦        *        ♦        *        ♦ 

Pray  that  wisdom  and  bliss  be  more  frequent 
visiters  of  R.  B. 


CCLXXXVU. 

TO   MRS.   RIDDEL. 

[The  bard  often  offended  and  often  appeased  this  whim* 
sical  but  ver)'  clever  lady.] 

I  HAVE  this  moment  got  the  song  from  Syme, 
and  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  he  has  spoilt  it  a 
good  deal.  It  shall  be  a  lesson  to  me  how  I 
lend  him  anything  again. 

I  have  sent  you  "Werter,"  truly  happy  to 
have  any  the  smallest  opportunity  of  obliging 
you. 

'Tis  true,  Madam,  I  saw  you  once  since  I  was 
at  Woodlea ;  and  that  once  froze  the  very  life- 
blood  of  my  heart.  Your  reception  of  me  was 
such,  that  a  wretch  meeting  the  eye  of  his  judge, 
about  to  pronounce  sentence  ;f  death  on  him 


476 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


could  only  have  envied  my  feelings  and  situa- 
tion. But  I  hate  the  theme,  and  never  more 
4hall  write  or  speak  on  it. 

One  thing  I  shall  proudly  say,  that  I  can  pay 
Mrs.  R.  a  higher  tribute  of  esteem,  and  appre- 
ciate her  amiable  worth  more  truly,  than  any 
man  whom  I  have  seen  approach  her. 

R.  B. 


ccLxxxviir. 

TO  MRS.   RIDDEL. 

[Burns  often  complained  in  company,  and  sometimes 
'.n  his  letters,  of  the  caprice  of  Mrs.  Riddel.] 

I  HAVE  often  told  you,  my  dear  friend,  that 
you  had  a  spice  of  caprice  in  your  composition, 
and  you  have  as  often  disavowed  it ;  even  per- 
haps while  your  opinions  were,  at  the  moment, 
irrefragably  proving  it.  Could  any thincf  estrange 
me  from  a  friend  such  as  you  ? — No !  To-morrow 
I  shall  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  you. 

Farewell,  thou  first  of  friends,  and  most 
accomplished  of  women ;  even  with  all  thy  little 
caprices  I  R.  B. 


CCLXXXIX. 

TO  MRS.   RIDDEL. 

[The  offended  lady  was  soothed  by  this  submissive  let- 
ter, and  the  bard  was  re-established  in  her  good  graces.] 

Madam, 

1  RETURN  your  common-place  book.  I  have 
perused  it  with  much  pleasure,  and  would  have 
continued  my  criticisms,  but  as  it  seems  the 
critic  has  forfeited  your  esteem,  his  strictures 
must  lose  their  value. 

If  it  is  true  that  "  oflPences  come  only  from 
the  heart,"  before  you  I  am  guiltless.  To  ad- 
mire, esteem,  and  prize  you  as  the  most  accom- 
plished of  women,  and  the  first  of  friends — if 
these  are  crimes,  I  am  the  most  offending  thing 
alive. 

In  a  face  where  I  used  to  meet  the  kind 
complacency  of  friendly  confidence,  now  to  find 
cold  neglect,  and  contemptuous  scorn — is  a 
wrench  that  my  heart  can  ill  bear.  It  is,  how- 
ever, some  kind  of  miserable  good  luck,  and 
while  de  haut-en-bas  rigour  may  depress  an 
unoffending  wretch  to  the  ground,  it  has  a  ten- 
dency to  rouse  a  stubborn  something  in  his 
boson?   which,  though  it  cannot  heal  the  wounds 


of  his  soul,  is  at  least  an  opiate  to  blunt  their 
poignancy. 

With  the  profoundest  respect  for  your  abili- 
ties ;  the  most  sincere  esteem  and  ardent  regard 
for  your  gentle  heart  and  amiable  manners ; 
and  the  most  fervent  wish  and  prayer  for  your 
welfare,  peace,  and  bliss,  I  have  the  honour 
to  be, 

Madam, 
Your  most  devoted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


CCXC. 

TO  JOHN   SYME,  ESQ. 

[John  Syme,of  the  stamp-office,  was  the  companion  aw 
well  as  comrade  in  arms,  of  Burns:  he  was  a  well-in- 
formed gentlemun,  loved  witty  company,  and  sinned  in 
rhyme  now  and  then:  his  epigrams  were  often  happy.] 

You  know  that  among  other  high  dignities, 
you  have  the  honour  to  be  my  supreme  court 
of  critical  judicature,  from  which  there  is  no 
appeal.  I  enclose  you  a  song  which  I  composed 
since  I  saw  you,  and  I  am  going  to  give  you 
the  history  of  it.  Do  you  know  that  among 
much  that  I  admire  in  the  characters  and  man- 
ners of  those  great  folks  whom  I  have  now  the 
honour  to  call  my  acquaintances,  the  Oswald 
family,  there  is  nothing  charms  me  more  than 
Mr.  Oswald's  unconcealable  attachment  to  that 
incomparable  woman.  Did  you  ever,  my  dear 
Syme,  meet  with  a  man  who  owed  more  to  the 
Divine  Giver  of  all  good  things  than  Mr.  0.  ? 
A  fine  fortune ;  a  pleasing  exterior ;  self-evident 
amiable  dispositions,  and  an  ingenuous  upright 
mind,  and  that  informed,  too,  much  beyond  the 
usual  run  of  young  fellows  of  his  rank  and  for- 
tune :  and  to  all  this,  such  a  woman ! — but  of 
her  I  shall  say  nothing  at  all,  in  despair  of 
saying  anything  adequate :  in  my  song  I  have 
endeavoured  to  do  justice  to  what  would  be 
his  feelings,  on  seeing,  in  the  scene  I  have 
drawn,  the  habitation  of  his  Lucy.  As  I  am  a 
good  deal  pleased  with  my  performance,  I,  in 
my  first  fervour,  thought  of  sending  it  to  Mrs. 
Oswald,  but  on  second  thoughts,  perhaps  what 
I  offer  as  the  honest  incense  of  genuine  respect, 
might,  from  the  well-known  character  of  poverty 
and  poetry,  be  construed  into  some  modification 
or  other  of  that  servility  which  my  soul  abhors. 

K.  B. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


477 


CCXCI. 


TO   MISS 


[Burns,  on  other  occasions  than  this,  recalled  both  his 
tetters  and  verses :  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  did  not 
IBcall  more  of  both.] 

Dumfries,  1794. 
Madam, 

Nothing  short  of  a  kind  of  absolute  necessity 
could  have  made  me  trouble  you  with  this  let- 
ter. Except  my  ardent  and  just  esteem  for 
your  sense,  taste,  and  worth,  every  sentiment 
arising  in  my  breast,  as  I  put  pen  to  paper  to 
you,  is  painful.  The  scenes  I  have  passed  with 
the  friend  of  my  soul  and  his  amiable  con- 
nexions !  the  wrench  at  my  heart  to  think  that 
he  is  gone,  for  ever  gone  from  me,  never  more 
to  meet  in  the  wanderings  of  a  weary  world ! 
and  the  cutting  reflection  of  all,  that  I  had 
most  unfortunately,  though  most  undeservedly, 
lost  the  confidence  of  that  soul  of  worth,  ere  it 
took  its  flight! 

These,  Madam,  are  sensations  of  no  ordinary 
anguish. — However,  you  also  may  be  offended 
with  some  imputed  improprieties  of  mine ;  sen- 
sibility you  know  I  possess,  and  sincerity  none 
will  deny  me. 

To  oppose  those  prejudices  which  have  been 
raised  against  me,  is  not  the  business  of  this 
letter.  Indeed  it  is  a  warfare  I  know  not  how 
to  wage.  The  powers  of  positive  vice  I  can 
in  some  degree  calculate,  and  against  direct 
malevolence  I  can  be  on  my  guard ;  but  who 
can  estimate  the  fatuity  of  giddy  caprice,  or 
ward  off  the  unthinking  mischief  of  precipitate 
folly  ? 

I  have  a  favour  to  request  of  you.  Madam, 

and  of  your   sister  Mrs. ,   through    your 

means.  You  know  that,  at  the  wish  of  my  late 
friend,  I  made  a  collection  of  all  my  trifles  in 
verse  which  I  had  ever  written.  They  are  many 
of  then:  local,  some  of  them  puerile  and  silly, 
and  all  of  them  unfit  for  the  public  eye.  As  I 
have  some  little  fame  at  stake,  a  fame  that  I 
trust  may  live  when  the  hate  of  those  who 
♦*  watch  for  my  halting,"  and  the  contumelious 
sneer  of  those  whom  accident  has  made  my  su- 
periors, will,  with  themselves,  be  gone  to  the 
regions  of  oblivion ;  I  am  uneasy  now  for  the 

fate  of  those  manuscripts — Will  Mrs. have 

the  goodness  to  destroy  them,  or  return  them 
to  me  ?  As  a  pledge  of  friendship  they  were  be- 
stowed; and  that  circumstance  indeed  was  all 
Uieir  merit.    Most  unhappily  for  me,  that  merit 


they  no  longer  possess ;   and  1  hope  that  Mrs. 

's  goodness,  which  I  well  know,  and  evet 

will  revere,  will  not  refuse  this  favour  to  a 
man  whom  she  once  held  in  some  degree  of 
estimation. 

"With  the  sincerest  esteem, 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

Madam,  &o. 
S  B 


CCXCII. 

TO   MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

[The  religious  feeling  of  Bums  was  sometimes  blunted, 
but  at  times  it  burst  out,  as  in  this  letter,  with  e  oquencf 
and  fervour,  mingled  with  fear.] 

2bth  February,  1794. 

Canst  thou  minister  to  a  mind  diseased? 
Canst  thou  speak  peace  and  rest  to  a  soul  tost 
on  a  sea  of  troubles,  without  one  friendly  star 
to  guide  her  course,  and  dreading  that  the  next 
surge  may  overwhelm  her  ?  Canst  thou  give  to 
a  frame  tremblingly  alive  as  the  tortures  of 
suspense,  the  stability  and  hardihood  of  the 
rock  that  braves  the  blast?  If  thou  canst 
not  do  the  least  of  these,  why  wouldst  thou 
disturb  me  in  my  miseries,  with  thy  inquiries 
after  me  ? 

****** 

For  these  two  months  I  have  not  been  able 
to  lift  a  pen.  My  constitution  and  frame  were, 
ab  origine,  blasted  with  a  deep  incurable  taint 
of  hypochondria,  which  poisons  my  existence. 
Of  late  a  number  of  domestic  vexations,  and 
some  pecuniary  share  in  the  ruin  of  these  cursed 
times;  losses  which,  though  trifling,  were  yet 
what  I  could  ill  bear,  have  so  irritated  me,  that 
my  feelings  at  times  could  only  be  envied  by  a 
reprobate  spirit  listening  to  the  sentence  that 
dooms  it  to  perdition. 

Are  you  deep  in  the  language  of  consolation  7 
I  have  exhausted  in  reflection  every  topic  of 
comfort.  A  heart  at  ease  would  have  been 
charmed  with  my  sentiments  and  reasonings; 
but  as  to  myself  I  was  like  Judas  Iscariot 
preaching  the  gospel ;  he  might  melt  and  mould 
the  hearts  of  those  around  him,  but  his  own 
kept  its  native  incorrigibility. 

Still  there  are  two  great  pillars  that  bear  us 
up,  amid  the  wreck  of  misfortune  and  misery. 
The  ONE  is  composed  of  the  different  modifica- 
tions of  a  certain  noble  stubborn  something  iq 
man,  known  by  the  names  of  courage,  fortitude. 


478 


GENEKAL   COKRESPONDENCE 


magnanimity.  The  other  is  made  up  of  those 
feelings  and  sentiments,  which,  however  the 
Bceptic  may  deny  them,  or  the  enthusiast  disfi- 
gure them,  are  yet,  I  am  convinced,  original 
and  component  parts  of  the  human  soul ;  those 
senses  of  the  mind,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  ex- 
pression, which  connect  us  with,  and  link  us  to, 
those  awful,  obscure  realities— an  all-powerful, 
jind  equally  beneficent  God ;  and  a  world  to 
come,  beyond  death  and  the  grave.  The  first 
gives  the  nerve  of  combat,  while  a  ray  of  hope 
beams  on  the  field:  the  last  pours  the  balm  of 
comfort  into  the  wounds  which  time  can  never 
cure. 

I  do  not  remember,  my  dear  Cunningham, 
that  you  and  I  ever  talked  on  the  subject  of  re- 
ligion at  all.  I  know  some  who  laugh  at  it,  as 
the  trick  of  the  crafty  few,  to  lead  the  undis- 
cerning  many  ;  or  at  most  as  an  uncertain  ob- 
scurity, which  mankind  can  never  know  any- 
thing of,  and  with  which  they  are  fools  if  they 
give  themselves  much  to  do.  Nor  would  I 
quarrel  with  a  man  for  his  irreligion,  any  more 
than  I  would  for  his  want  of  a  musical  ear.  I 
would  regret  that  he  was  shut  out  from  what, 
to  me  and  to  others,  were  such  superlative 
sources  of  enjoyment.  It  is  in  this  point  of 
view,  and  for  this  reason,  that  I  will  deeply 
imbue  the  mind  of  every  child  of  mine  with  re- 
ligion. If  my  son  should  happen  to  be  a  man 
of  feeling,  sentiment,  and  taste,  I  shall  thus 
add  largely  to  his  enjoyments.  Let  me  flatter 
myself  that  this  sweet  little  fellow,  who  is  just 
now  running  about  my  desk,  will  be  a  man  of 
a  melting,  ardent,  glowing  heart ;  and  an  ima- 
gination, delighted  with  the  painter,  and  rapt 
with  the  poet.  Let  me  figure  him  wandering 
out  in  a  sweet  evening,  to  inhale  the  balmy 
gales,  and  enjoy  the  growing  luxuriance  of 
spring ;  himself  the  while  in  the  blooming  youth 
of  life.  He  looks  abroad  on  all  nature,  and 
through  nature  up  to  nature's  God.  His  soul, 
by  swift  delighting  degrees,  is  rapt  above  this 
sublunary  sphere,  until  he  can  be  silent  no 
longer,  and  bursts  out  into  the  glorious  enthusi- 
asm of  Thomson, 

"  These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.— The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee." 

And  so  on,  in  all  the  spirit  and  ardour  of  that 
charming  hymn.  These  are  no  ideal  pleasures, 
they  are  real  delights ;  and  I  ask  what  of  the 
delights  among  the  sons  of  men  are  superior, 


not  to  say  equal  to  them  ?  And  they  have  thij 
precious,  vast  addition,  that  conscious  virtue 
stamps  them  for  her  own  ;  and  lays  hold  on 
them  to  bring  herself  into  the  presence  of  a 
witnessing,  judging,  and  approving  God. 

E.  B 


CCXCIII 

TO   THE  EARL  OF   GLENCAIRN. 

[The  original  letter  ^s  m  the  possession  of  the  Hon 
Mrs.  Halliind,  of  Poynings  :  it  is  undated,  but  from  a 
memorandum  on  the  back  it  appears  to  have  been  written 
in  May,  1794.] 

May,  1794. 
My  Lord, 

When  you  cast  your  eye  on  the  name  at  the 
bottom  of  this  letter,  and  on  the  title-page  of 
the  book  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  send  your 
lordship,  a  more  pleasurable  feeling  than  my 
vanity  tells  me  that  it  must  be  a  name  not  en- 
tirely unknown  to  you.  The  generous  patronage 
of  your  late  illustrious  brother  found  me  in  the 
lowest  obscurity  :  he  introduced  my  rustic  muse 
to  the  partiality  of  my  country ;  and  to  him  I 
owe  all.  My  sense  of  his  goodness,  and  the 
anguish  of  my  soul  at  losing  my  truly  noble 
protector  and  friend,  I  have  endeavoured  to 
express  in  a  poem  to  his  memory,  which  I  have 
now  published.  This  edition  is  just  from  the 
press ;  and  in  my  gratitude  to  the  dead,  and 
my  respect  for  the  living  (fame  belies  you,  my 
Icrd,  if  you  possess  not  the  same  dignity  of  man, 
which  was  your  noble  brother's  characteristic 
feature),  I  had  destined  a  copy  for  the  Earl  of 
Glencairn.  I  learnt  just  now  that  you  are  in 
town : — allow  me  to  present  it  you. 

I  know,  my  lord,  such  is  the  vile,  venal  conta- 
gion which  pervades  the  world  of  letters,  that 
professions  of  respect  from  an  author,  particu- 
larly from  a  poet,  to  a  lord,  are  more  than  sus- 
picious. I  claim  my  by-past  conduct,  and  my 
feelings  at  this  moment,  as  exceptions  to  tha 
too  just  conclusion.  Exalted  as  are  the  honours 
of  your  lordship's  name,  and  unnoted  as  is  the 
obscurity  of  mine ;  with  the  uprightness  of  an 
honest  man,  I  come  before  your  lordship  with 
an  oflFering,  however  humble,  'tis  all  I  have  to 
give,  of  my  grateful  respect ;  and  to  beg  of 
you,  my  lord, — 'tis  all  I  have  to  ask  of  you,— 
that  you  will  do  me  the  honour  to  accept  of  it 
I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

R.  B. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


47S 


CCXCIV. 

TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[The  correspondence  between  the  poet  and  the  musi- 
i.iiin  was  interrupted  in  spring,  but  in  summer  and  au- 
tutnn  the  sjng-strains  were  renewed.] 

May,  1794. 
My  dear  Sir, 

I  return  you  the  plates,  with  which  I  am 
highly  pleased ;  I  would  humbly  propose,  in- 
stead of  the  younker  knitting  stockings,  to  put 
a  stock  and  horn  into  his  hands.  A  friend  of 
mine,  who  is  positively  the  ablest  judge  on  the 
subject  I  have  ever  met  with,  and,  though  an 
unknown,  is  yet  a  superior  artist  with  the  burin, 
is  quite  charmed  with  Allan's  manner.  I  got 
him  a  peep  of  the  "Gentle  Shepherd;"  and  he 
pronounces  Allan  a  most  original  artist  of  great 
excellence. 

For  my  part,  I  look  on  Mr.  Allan's  choosing 
my  favourite  poem  for  his  subject,  to  be  one  of 
the  highest  compliments  I  have  ever  received. 

I  am  quite  vexed  at  Pleyel's  being  cooped  up 
In  France,  as  it  will  put  an  entire  stop  to  our 
work.  Now,  and  for  six  or  seven  months,  I 
shall  be  quite  in  song,  as  you  shall  see  by  and 
bye.  I  got  an  air,  pretty  enough,  composed  by 
Lady  Elizabeth  Heron,  of  Heron,  which  she 
calls  "The  Banks  of  Cree."  Cree  is  a  beauti- 
ful romantic  stream ;  and,  as  her  ladyship  is  a 
particular  friend  of  mine,  I  have  written  the 
following  song  to  it. 

Here  is  the  glen  and  here  the  bower.' 

B.  B. 


CCXCV. 
TO   DAVID   M'CULLOCH,  ESQ. 

[The  endorsement  on  the  back  of  the  original  letter 
•he  »-8  in  what  far  lands  it  has  travelled  : — "  Given  by  Da- 
vid M'CuUoch,  Penang,  1810.  A.  Fraser."  "  Received, 
15th  December,  1823,  in  Calcutta,  from  Captain  Frazer's 
wifow,  bj  me,  Thomas  Rankine."  ««  Transmitted  to 
Archibald  P  il:  o,  Esq.,  London,  March  27th,  1834,  from 
Bombay."] 

Dumfriea,  2Ut  June,  1794. 

Mt  dear  Sir, 

My  long-projected  journey    through    your 

eountry  is  at  last  fixed :  and  on  Wednesday  next. 

If  you  kave  nothing  of  more  importance  to  do, 

take  a  saunter  down  to  Gatehouse  about  two  or 

I  Sonir  CCXXIII. 


three  o'clock,  I  shall  be  happy  to  take  a  draught 
of  M'Kune's  best  with  you.  Collector  Syme 
will  be  at  Glens  about  that  time,  and  will  meet 
us  about  dish-of-tea  hour.  Syme  goes  also  to 
Kerroughtree,  and  let  me  remind  you  cf  your 
kind  promise  to  accompany  me  there ;  I  will 
need  all  the  friends  I  can  muster,  for  I  am  in- 
deed ill  at  ease  whenever  I  approach  your  ho- 
nourables  and  right  honourables. 

Yours  sincerely, 

R.  B. 


CCXCVI. 

TO  MRS.    DUNLOP. 

[Castle  Douglas  is  a  thriving  Galloway  village :  it  was 
in  other  days  called  "  The  Carlinwark,"  but  accepted  its 
pre.sent  proud  name  from  an  opulent  lamily  of  irtercuntile 
Douglasses,  well  known  in  Scotland,  England,  and 
America.] 

Castle  Douglas,  26(h  June,  1794. 

Here,  in  a  solitary  inn,  in  a  solitary  village, 
am  I  set  by  myself,  to  amuse  my  brooding  fancy 
as  I  may. — Solitary  confinement,  you  know,  is 
Howard's  favourite  idea  of  reclaiming  sinners  ; 
so  let  me  consider  by  what  fatality  it  happens 
that  I  have  so  long  been  so  exceeding  sinful  as  to 
neglect  the  correspondence  of  the  most  valued 
friend  I  have  on  earth.  To  tell  you  that  I  have 
been  in  poor  health  will  not  be  excuse  enough, 
though  it  is  true.  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  about 
to  sufl^er  for  the  follies  of  my  youth.  My  medi- 
cal friends  threaten  me  with  a  flying  gout ;  but 
I  trust  they  are  mistaken. 

I  am  just  going  to  trouble  your  critical  pa- 
tience with  the  first  sketch  of  a  stanza  I  have 
been  framing  as  I  passed  along  the  road.  The 
subject  is  Liberty:  you  know,  my  honoured 
friend,  how  dear  the  theme  is  to  me.  I  design 
it  as  an  irregular  ode  for  General  Washington's 
birth-day.  After  having  mentioned  the  dege- 
neracy of  other  kingdoms,  I  come  to  Scotlani 
thus : — 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 
Thee,  famed  for  martial  deed,  and  sacred  song, 

To  thee  I  turn  with  swimming  eyes; 
Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled  ? 
Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead  ! 

Beneath  the  halfowed  turf  where  Wallact 
lies  I 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of  death  I 

Ye  babbling  winds  in  silence  sweep. 
Disturb  not  ye  the  hero's  sleep." 


480 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE 


with  additions  of 

That  arm  which  nerved  with  thundering  fate, 
Braved  usurpation's  boldest  daring  ! 

One  quenched  in  darkness  like  the  sinking  star, 
And  one  the  palsied  arm  of  tottering,  power- 
less age. 

You  will  probably  have  another  scrawl  from 
me  in  a  stage  or  two.  R.  B. 


CCXCVII. 
TO  MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON. 

[The  anxiety  of  Burns  about  the  accuracy  of  his  poetry^ 
while  in  the  press,  was  great:  he  found  full  employment 
for  months  in  correcting  a  new  edition  of  his  poems.] 

Dumfries,  1794. 
My  dear  Friend, 

You  should  have  heard  from  me  long  ago ; 
but  over  and  above  some  vexatious  share  in  the 
pecuniary  losses  of  these  accursed  times,  I  have 
all  this  winter  been  plagued  with  low  spirits  and 
Dlue  devils,  so  that  /  have  almost  hung  my  harp 
on  the  willow-trees. 

I  am  just  now  busy  correcting  a  new  edition 
of  my  poems,  and  this,  with  my  ordinary  busi- 
ness, finds  me  in  full  employment. 

I  send  you  by  my  friend  Mr.  Wallace  forty- 
one  songs  for  your  fifth  volume  ;  if  we  cannot 
finish  it  in  any  other  way,  what  would  you  think 
of  Scots  words  to  some  beautiful  Irish  airs? 
In  the  mean  time,  at  your  leisure,  give  a  copy 
of  the  Museum  to  my  worthy  friend,  Mr.  Peter 
Hill,  bookseller,  to  bind  for  me,  interleaved  with 
blank  leaves,  exactly  as  he  did  the  Laird  of 
Glenriddel's,  that  I  may  insert  every  anecdote 
I  can  learn,  together  with  my  own  criticisms 
and  remarks  on  the  songs.  A  copy  of  this  kind 
I  shall  leave  with  you,  the  editor,  to  publish  at 
some  after  period,  by  way  of  making  the  Mu- 
seum a  book  famous  to  the  end  of  time,  and 
you  renowned  for  ever. 

I  have  got  an  Highland  dirk,  for  which  I 
have  great  veneration ;  as  it  once  was  the  dirk 
of  Lord  Balmerino.  It  fell  into  bad  hands,  who 
stripped  it  of  the  silver  mounting,  as  well  as 
the  knife  and  fork.  I  have  some  thoughts  of 
sending  it  to  your  care,  to  get  it  mounted  anew. 

Thank  you  for  the  copies  of  my  "Volunteer 
\Jallad. — Our  friend  Clarke  has  done  indeed  well ' 
'tis  chaste  and  beautiful.  I  have  not  met  with 
anything  that  has  pleased  me  so  much.     You 


know  I  am  no  connoisseur :  but  that  I  am  a« 
amateur — will  be  allowed  me. 

R.  B. 


ccxovni. 

TO  MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  blank  in  this  letter  could  be  filled  up  without 
writing  treason :  but  nothing  has  been  omitted  of  an 
original  nature.] 

July,  1794. 

Is  there  no  news  yet  of  Pleyel  ?  Or  is  your 
work  to  be  at  a  dead  stop,  until  the  allies  set 
our  modern  Orpheus  at  liberty  from  the  savage 
thraldom  of  democrat  discords  ?  Alas  the  day  ! 
And  woe  is  me !  That  auspicious  period,  preg- 
nant with  the  happiness  of  millions.  •     •     *     • 

I  have  presented  a  copy  of  your  songs  to  the 
daughter  of  a  much-valued  and  much-honoured 
friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintray.  I 
wrote  on  the  blank  side  of  the  title-page  the 
following  address  to  the  young  lady : 

Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives, 

&c.^ 

R.  B. 


CCXCIX. 
TO   MR.   THOMSON. 

[Thomson  says  to  Burns,  "You  have  anticipated  my 
opinion  of  '  O'er  the  seas  and  far  away.'  "  Yet  some  of 
the  verses  are  original  and  touching.] 

SOth  August,  1794. 

The  last  evening,  as  I  was  straying  out,  and 
thinking  of  "  O'er  the  hills  and  far  away,"  I 
spun  the  following  stanza  for  it ;  but  whether 
my  spinning  will  deserve  to  be  laid  up  in  store, 
like  the  precious  thread  of  the  silk-worm,  or 
brushed  to  the  devil,  like  the  vile  manufacture 
of  the  spider,  I  leave,  my  dear  Sir,  to  your 
usual  candid  criticism.  I  was  pleased  with 
several  lines  in  it  at  first,  but  I  own  that  now  it 
appears  rather  a  flimsy  business. 

This  is  just  a  hasty  sketch,  until  I  see  whether 
it  be  worth  a  critique.  We  have  many  sailor 
songs,  but  as  far  as  I  at  present  recollect,  they 
are  mostly  the  effusions  of  the  jovial  sailor,  not 
the  wailings  of  his  love-lorn  mistress.  I  must 
here  make  one  sweet  exception — "  Sweet  Anni« 
frae  the  sea-beach  came."  Now  for  the  song:— 
How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad.^ 


Poem  CCXXIX. 


2Son£rCCXXIV 


OF   ROBERT    BURNS. 


481 


I  give  you  leave  to  abuse  this  song,  but  do  it 
m  the  spirit  of  Christian  meekness. 

R.  B. 


ceo. 

TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[The  stream  on  the  banks  of  which  this  song  is  sup- 
posed to  be  sung,  is  known  by  three  names,  Cairn,  Dal- 
gonar,  and  Cluden.  It  rises  under  the  name  of  Cairn, 
runs  through  a  wild  country,  under  the  name  of  Dalgo- 
nar,  affording  fine  trout-fishing  as  well  as  fine  scenes, 
and  under  that  of  Cluden  it  all  but  washes  the  walls  of 
Lincluden  College,  and  then  unites  with  the  Nith.] 

Sept.  1794. 

I  SHALL  -withdraw  my  "  On  the  seas  and  far 
away"  altogether :  it  is  unequal,  and  unworthy 
the  work.  Making  a  poem  is  like  begetting  a 
Bon  :  you  cannot  know  whether  you  have  a  wise 
man  or  a  fool,  until  you  produce  him  to  the 
world  to  try  him. 

For  that  reason  I  send  you  the  oflFspring  of 
my  brain,  abortions  and  all ;  and,  as  such,  pray 
look  over  them,  and  forgive  them,  and  burn 
them.  I  am  flattered  at  your  adopting  "  Ca' 
the  yowes  to  the  knowes,"  as  it  was  owing  to 
me  that  ever  it  saw  the  light.  About  seven 
years  ago  I  was  well  acquainted  with  a  worthy 
little  fellow  of  a  clergyman,  a  Mr.  Clunie,  who 
sang  it  charmingly;  and,  at  my  request,  Mr. 
Clarke  took  it  dawn  from  his  singing.  When  I 
gave  it  to  Johnson,  I  added  some  stanzas  to  the 
song,  and  mended  others,  but  still  it  will  not  do 
for  you.  In  a  solitary  stroll  which  I  took  to- 
day, I  tried  my  hand  on  a  few  pastoral  lines, 
following  up  the  idea  of  the  chorus,  which  I 
would  preserve.  Here  it  is,  with  all  its  crudi- 
ties and  imperfections  on  its  head. 

Ca'  the  yowea  to  the  knowes,  &c.' 

I  shall  give  you  my  opinion  of  your  other 
newly  adopted  songs  my  first  scribbling  fit. 

R.  B. 


CCCI. 
TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[Dr.  Maxwell,  whose  skill  called  forth  the  praises  of 
the  poet,  had  the  honour  of  being  named  by  Burke  in  the 
House  of  Commons:  he  shared  in  the  French  revolution, 


Song  CCXXV 
31 


«SongCCXXVI. 


and  narrowly  escaped  the  guillotine,  like  many  other 
true  friends  of  liberty.] 

Sept.  1794. 

Do  you  know  a  blackguard  Irish  song  called 
"  Onagh's  Waterfall  ?"  The  air  is  charming, 
and  I  have  often  regretted  the  want  of  decent 
verses  to  it.  It  is  too  much,  at  least  for  my 
humble  rustic  muse,  to  expect  that  every  effort 
of  hers  shall  have  merit;  still  I  think  that  it  is 
better  to  have  mediocre  verses  to  a  favourite 
air,  than  none  at  all.  On  this  principle  I  have 
all  along  proceeded  in  the  Scots  Musical  Mu- 
seum; and  as  that  publication  is  at  its  last 
volume,  I  intend  the  following  song,  to  the  air 
above  mentioned,  for  that  work. 

If  it  does  not  suit  you  as  an  editor,  you  may 
be  pleased  to  have  verses  to  it  that  you  can  sing 
in  the  company  of  ladies. 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets.' 

Not  to  compare  small  things  with  great,  my 
taste  in  music  is  like  the  mighty  Frederick  of 
Prussia's  taste  in  painting :  we  are  told  that  he 
frequently  admired  what  the  connoisseurs  de- 
cried, and  always  without  any  hypocrisy  con 
fessed  his  admiration.  I  am  sensible  that  my 
taste  in  music  must  be  inelegant  and  vulgar, 
because  people  of  undisputed  and  cultivated 
taste  can  find  no  merit  in  my  favourite  tunes. 
Still,  because  I  am  cheaply  pleased,  is  that  any 
reason  why  I  should  deny  myself  that  pleasure? 
Many  of  our  strathspeys,  ancient  and  modern, 
give  me  most  exquisite  enjoyment,  where  you 
and  other  judges  would  probably  be  showing 
disgust.  For  instance,  I  am  just  now  making 
verses  for  '*  Rothemurche's  rant,"  an  air  which 
puts  me  in  raptures ;  and,  in  fact,  unless  I  be 
pleased  with  the  tune,  I  never  can  make  verses 
to  it.  Here  I  have  Clarke  on  my  side,  who  is  a 
judge  that  I  will  pit  against  any  of  you,  "  Rothe- 
murche,"  he  says,  "is  an  air  both  original  and 
beautiful ;"  and,  on  his  recommendation,  I  have 
taken  the  first  part  of  the  tune  for  a  chorus, 
and  the  fourth  or  last  part  for  the  song.  I  uw 
but  two  stanzas  deep  in  the  work,  and  poss.bly 
you  may  think,  and  justly,  that  the  poetry  is  as 
little  worth  your  attention  as  the  music 

[Here  follow  two  stanzas  of  the  song,  beginning  "  La»- 
sie  wi>  the  lint-white  locks."    Song  CCXXXllI.] 

I  have  begun  anew,  *'  Let  me  in  this  ae  night.** 
Do  you  think  that  we  ought  to  retain  the  old 
chorus  ?  I  think  we  must  retain  both  the  old 
chorus  and  the  first  stanza  of  the  ol  1  song.     I 


iS2 


GENERAL   COKKESPONDENCE 


do  not  altogether  like  the  third  line  of  the  first 
Btanza,  but  cannot  alter  it  to  please  myself.  I 
am  just  three  stanzas  deep  in  it.  Would  you 
have  the  denouement  to  be  successful  or  other- 
wise ? — should  she  "  let  him  in"  or  not  ? 

Did  you  not  once  propose  "  The  sow's  tail  to 
Geordie"  as  an  air  for  your  work?  I  am  quite 
delighted  with  it ;  but  I  acknowledge  that  is  no 
mark  of  its  real  excellence.  I  once  set  about 
\erses  for  it,  which  I  meant  to  be  in  the  alter- 
nate way  of  a  lover  and  his  mistress  chanting 
together.  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
Mrs.  Thomson's  Christian  name,  and  yours,  I 
am  afraid,  is  rather  burlesque  for  sentiment, 
else  I  had  meant  to  have  made  you  the  hero 
and  heroine  of  the  little  piece. 

How  do  you  like  the  following  epigram  which 
I  wrote  the  other  day  on  a  lovely  young  girl's 
recovery  from  a  fever?  Doctor  Maxwell  was 
the  physician  who  seemingly  saved  her  from 
the  grave ;  and  to  him  I  address  the  following  : 

TO  DR.   MAXWELL, 

ON   MISS  JESSIE    STAIQ's   RECOVERY. 

Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave. 

That  merit  I  deny  ; 
You  save  fair  Jessy  from  the  grave  ? — 

An  angel  could  not  die ! 

God  grant  you  patience  with  this  stupid 
epistle!  R.  B. 


CCCII. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  poet  relates  the  history  of  several  of  his  best 
Bongs  in  this  letter:  the  true  old  strain  of  '•  Andro  and 
nis  cutty  gun"  is  the  first  of  its  kind.] 

19^^  October,  1794. 
My  dear  Fribnd^ 
By  this  morning's  post  I  have  your  list,  and, 
in  general,  1  highly  approve  of  it.  I  shall,  at 
more  leisure,  give  you  a  critique  on  the  whole. 
Clarke  goes  to  your  town  by  to-day's  fly,  and  I 
wish  you  would  call  on  him  and  take  his  opinion 
in  general :  you  know  his  taste  is  a  standard. 
He  will  return  here  again  in  a  week  or  two,  so 
please  do  not  miss  asking  for  him.  One  thing  I 
hope  he  will  do — persuade  you  to  adopt  my  fa- 
vourite "Craigieburn-wood,"  in  your  selection: 
it  is  as  great  a  favourite  of  his  as  of  mine.  The 
Udy  on  whom  it  was  made  is  one  of  the  finest 


women  in  Scotland ;  and  in  fact  {entre  nous)  is 
in  a  manner  to  me  what  Sterne's  Eliza  was  to 
him — a  mistress,  or  friend,  or  what  you  will,  in 
the  guileless  simplicity  of  Platonic  love.  (Now, 
don't  put  any  of  your  squinting  constructions 
on  this,  or  have  any  clishmaclaver  about  it 
among  our  acquaintances.)  I  assure  you  that 
to  my  lovely  friend  you  are  indebted  for  many 
of  your  best  songs  of  mine.  Do  you  think  that 
the  sober,  gin-horse  routine  of  existence  could 
inspire  a  man  with  life,  and  love,  and  joy — 
could  fire  him  with  enthusiasm,  or  melt  him 
with  pathos,  equal  to  the  genius  of  your  book  ? 
No !  no !  Whenever  I  want  to  be  more  than 
ordinary  in  song — to  be  in  some  degree  equal  to 
your  diviner  airs — do  you  imagine  I  fast  and 
pray  for  the  celestial  emanation  ?  Tout  au  con- 
traire!  I  have  a  glorious  recipe;  the  very  one 
that  for  his  own  use  was  invented  by  the  divi- 
nity of  healing  and  poetry,  when  erst  he  piped 
to  the  flocks  of  Admetus.  I  put  myself  in  a 
regimen  of  admiring  a  fine  woman ;  and  in  pro- 
portion to  the  adorability  of  her  charms,  in  pro- 
portion you  are  delighted  with  my  verses.  The 
lightning  of  her  eye  is  the  godhead  of  Parnas- 
sus, and  the  witchery  of  her  smile  the  divinity 
of  Helicon  ! 

To  descend  to  business  :  if  you  like  my  idea 
of  "  When  she  cam  ben  she  bobbit,"  the  follow- 
ing stanzas  of  mine,  altered  a  little  from  what 
they  were  formerly,  when  set  to  another  air, 
may  perhaps  do  instead  of  worse  stanzas : — 

0  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely.  * 

Now  for  a  few  miscellaneous  remarks.  "  The 
Posie"  (in  the  Museum)  is  my  composition ;  the 
air  was  taken  down  from  Mrs.  Burns's  voice.  It 
is  well  known  in  the  west  country,  but  the  old 
words  are  trash.  By  the  bye,  take  a  look  at 
the  tune  again,  and  tell  me  if  you  do  not  think 
it  is  the  original  from  which  "Roslin  Castle" 
is  composed.  The  second  part  in  particular, 
for  the  first  two  or  three  bars,  is  exactly  the 
old  air.  "  Strathallan's  Lament"  is  mine  ;  the 
music  is  by  our  right  trusty  and  deservedly 
well-beloved  Allan  Masterton.  "  Donocht-Head" 
is  not  mine  ;  I  would  give  ten  pounds  it  were. 
It  appeared  first  in  the  Edinburgh  Herald,  and 
came  to  the  editor  of  that  paper  with  the  New- 
castle post-mark  on  it.  *'  Whistle  o'er  the  lave 
o't"  is  mine :  the  music  said  to  be  by  a  John 


Song  CCXXVII. 


OF   ROBEliT  BURNS. 


48b 


Bruce,  a  celebrated  violin-player  in  Dumfries, 
about  the  beginning  of  this  century.  This  I 
know,  Bruce,  who  was  an  honest  man,  though  a 
red-wud  Highlandman,  constantly  claimed  it; 
and  by  all  the  old  musical  people  here  is  be- 
lieved to  be  the  author  of  it. 

"  Andrew  and  his  cutty  gun."  The  song  to 
which  this  is  set  in  the  Museum  is  mine,  and 
was  composed  on  Miss  Euphemia  Murray,  of 
Lintrose,  commonly  and  deservedly  called  the 
Flower  of  Strathmore. 

*'  How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night !"  I  met 
with  some  such  words  in  a  collection  of  songs 
somewhere,  which  I  altered  and  enlarged ;  and 
to  please  you,  and  to  suit  your  favourite  air,  I 
have  taken  a  stride  or  two  across  my  room,  and 
have  arranged  it  anew,  as  you  will  find  on  the 
other  page. 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night,  &c.* 

Tell  me  how  you  like  this.  I  differ  from  your 
idea  of  the  expression  of  the  tune.  There  is, 
to  me,  a  great  deal  of  tenderness  in  it.  You 
cannot,  in  my  opinion,  dispense  with  a  bass  to 
your  addenda  airs.  A  lady  of  my  acquaintance, 
a  noted  performer,  plays  and  sings  at  the  same 
time  so  charmingly,  that  I  shall  never  bear  to 
see  any  of  her  songs  sent  into  the  world,  as 
naked  as  Mr.  What-d'ye-call-um  has  done  in  his 
London  collection.^ 

These  English  songs  gravel  me  to  death.  I 
have  not  that  command  of  the  language  that  I 
have  of  my  native  tongue.  I  have  been  at 
"  Duncan  Gray,"  to  dress  it  in  English,  but  all 
I  can  do  is  deplorably  stupid.   For  instance  : — 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain,  &c.' 

Since  the  above,  I  have  been  out  in  the  coun- 
try, taking  a  dinner  with  a  friend,  where  I  met 
with  a  lady  whom  I  mentioned  in  the  second 
page  in  this  odds-and-ends  of  a  letter.  As 
usual,  I  got  *nto  song ;  and  returning  home  I 
composed  the  following : 

Sleep'st  thou,  or  wak'st  thou,  fairest  creature 
&c.-» 

If  you  honour  my  verses  by  setting  the  air  to 
Ihem,  I  will  vamp  up  the  old  song,  and  make  it 
English  enough  to  be  understood. 

I  enclose  you  a  musical  ?:iriosity,  an  East  In- 
dian air,  which  you  would  swear  was  a  Scottish 

'•St.ngCCXXVIIl. 

<  Mr.  Ritson,  whose  collection  nf  Scottish  songs  was 
abli«>-eU  this  year. 


one.  I  know  the  authenticity  of  it,  as  the  gen- 
tleman who  brought  it  over  is  a  particular  ac- 
quaintance of  mine.  Do  preserve  me  the  copy 
I  send  you,  as  it  is  the  only  one  I  have.  Clarke 
has  set  a  bass  to  it,  and  I  intend  putting  it  into 
the  Musical  Museum.  Here  follow  the  verses  I 
intend  for  it. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green,  &c.* 

I  would  be  obliged  to  you  if  yo  i  would  pro- 
cure me  a  sight  of  Ritson's  collection  of  English 
songs,  which  you  mention  in  your  letter.  I  will 
thank  you  for  another  information,  and  that  as 
speedily  as  you  please :  whether  this  miserable 
drawling  hotchpotch  epistle  has  not  completely 
tired  you  of  my  correspondence  ? 

VARIATION, 

Now  to  the  streaming  fountain, 

Or  up  the  heathy  mountain, 
The  hart,  hind,  and  roe,  freely,  wildly-wanton 
stray  ; 

In  twining  hazel  bowers, 

His  lay  the  linnet  pours: 

The  lav'rock  to  the  sky 

Ascends  wi'  sangs  o'  joy, 
While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the  day. 

When  frae  my  Chloris  parted. 

Sad,  cheerless,  broken-hearted. 
The  night's  gloomy  shades,  cloudy,  dark   o'«^ 
cast  my  sky. 

But  when  she  charms  my  sight. 

In  pride  of  beauty's  light ; 

When  through  my  very  heart 

Her  beaming  glories  dart ; 
'Tis  then,  'tis  then  I  wake  to  life  and  joy ! 

R.  B. 


cccin. 

TO  MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  presents  made  to  the  poet  were  far  from  nt  c*: 
ous :  the  book  for  which  he  expresses  his  thanks,  wa> 
the  work  of  the  Mraspish  Rifson.] 

November,  1794. 

Many  thanks  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your 
present;  it  is  a  book  of  the  utmost  importance 
to  me.  I  have  yesterday  begun  my  anecdotes. 
&c.,  for  your  work.  I  intend  drawing  them  up 
in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  you,  which  will  save 


»  Song  CCXXIX. 


4  Song  CCXXX. 
6  Song  CCXVI. 


i84 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


me  from  the  tedious  dull  business  of  systematic 
ntTiuigement.  Indeed,  as  all  I  have  to  say  con- 
sists of  unconnected  remarks,  anecdotes,  scraps 
of  old  songs,  &c.,  it  would  be  impossible  to  give 
the  work  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end, 
which  the  critics  insist  to  be  absolutely  necessary 
in  a  work.  In  my  last,  I  told  you  my  objections 
to  the  song  you  had  selected  for  "My  lodging 
is  on  the  cold  ground."  On  my  visit  the  other 
day  to  my  fair  Chloris  (that  is  the  poetic  name 
of  the  lovely  goddess  of  my  inspiration),  she 
suggested  an  idea,  which  I,  on  my  return  from 
the  visit,  wrought  into  the  following  song. 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves.' 

How  do  you  like  the  simplicity  and  tenderness 
of  this  pastoral  ?     I  think  it  pretty  well. 

I  like  you  for  entering  so  candidly  and  so 
kindly  into  the  story  of  "ma  chere  amie."  I  as- 
sure you  I  was  never  more  in  earnest  in  my  life, 
than  in  the  account  of  that  affair  which  I  sent 
you  in  my  last.  Conjugal  love  is  a  passion 
which  I  deeply  feel,  and  highly  venerate ;  but, 
somehow,  it  does  not  make  such  a  figure  in  poesy 
as  that  other  species  of  the  passion, 

"Where  love  is  liberty,  and  nature  law." 
Musically  speaking,  the  first  is  an  instrument 
of  which  the  gamut  is  scanty  and  confined,  but 
the  tones  inexpressibly  sweet,  while  the  last  has 
powers  equal  to  all  the  intellectual  modulations 
of  the  human  soul.  Still,  I  am  a  very  poet  in 
my  enthusiasm  of  the  passion.  The  welfare  and 
happiness  of  the  beloved  object  is  the  first  and 
inviolate  sentiment  that  pervades  my  soul ;  and 
whatever  pleasures  I  might  wish  for,  or  whatever 
might  be  the  raptures  they  would  give  me,  yet, 
if  they  interfere  with  that  first  principle,  it  is 
having  these  pleasures  at  a  dishonest  price  ;  and 
justice  forbids  and  generosity  disdains  the  pur- 
chase. 

Despairing  of  my  own  powers  to  give  you 
variety  enough  in  English  songs,  I  have  been 
turning  over  old  collections,  to  pick  out  songs,  of 
which  the  measure  is  something  similar  to  what 
I  want;  and,  with  a  little  alteration,  so  as  to 
suit  th8  rhythm  of  the  air  exactly,  to  give  you 
them  for  your  work.  Where  the  songs  have 
hitherto  been  but  little  noticed,  nor  have  ever 
been  set  to  music,  I  think  the  shift  a  fair  one. 
A  song,  which,  under  the  same  first  verse,  you 
will  find  in  Ramsay's  Tea-table  Miscellany,  I 


»  Song  CCXXXI. 


2  Song  CCXXXII. 


have  cut  down  for  an  English  dress  to  youl 
♦♦  Dainty  Davie,"  as  follows : — 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May.2 

You  may  think  meanly  of  this,  but  take  a  look 
at  the  bombast  original,  and  you  will  be  sur- 
prised that  I  have  made  so  much  of  it.  I  have 
finished  my  song  to  "  Rothemurche's  rant,"  and 
you  have  Clarke  to  consult  as  to  the  set  of  the 
air  for  singing. 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks,  &,c.^ 

This  piece  has  at  least  the  merit  of  being  a 
regular  pastoral :  the  vernal  morn,  the  summer 
noon,  the  autumnal  evening,  and  the  winter 
night,  are  regularly  rounded.  If  you  like  it, 
well ;  if  not,  I  will  insert  it  in  the  Museum. 

R.  B 


CCCIV. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[Sjr  Walter  Seott  remarked,  on  the  lyrics  of  Burna, 
*'  that  at  last  the  writing  a  series  of  songs  for  large  mu- 
sical collections  degenerated  into  a  slavish  labour  which 
no  talents  could  support."] 

I  AM  out  of  temper  that  you  should  set  so 
sweet,  so  tender  an  air,  as  "  Deil  tak  the  wars," 
to  the  foolish  old  verses.  You  talk  of  the  silli- 
ness of  "Saw  ye  my  father?" — By  heavens! 
the  odds  is  gold  to  brass !  Besides,  the  old 
song,  though  now  pretty  well  modernized  into 
the  Scottish  language,  is  originally,  and  in  the 
early  editions,  a  bungling  low  imitation" of  the 
Scottish  manner,  by  that  genius  Tom  D'Urfey, 
so  has  no  pretensions  to  be  a  Scottish  produc- 
tion. There  is  a  pretty  English  song  by  Sheri- 
dan, in  the  "  Duenna,"  to  this  air,  which  is  out 
of  sight  superior  to  D'Urfey's.     It  begins, 

"When  sable  night  each  drooping  plant  restoring.*' 
The  air,   if  I  understand  the  expression  of  it 
properly,  is  the  very  native  language  of  simpli- 
city, tenderness,  and  love.     I  have  again  gone 
gone  over  my  song  to  the  tune. 

Now  for  my  English  song  to  "  Nancy's  to  the 
greenwood,"  tc. 

Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding  flows.* 

There  is  an  air,  "  The  Caledonian  Hunt's  De- 
light," to  which  I  wrote  a  song  that  you  will  find 
in  Johnson,  **  Ye  banks   and  braes  o'  bonni« 


3  Song  CCXXXIII. 


4SongCCXXXIV. 


OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


48d 


Doon ;"  this  air  I  think  might  find  a  place 
Rraongyour  hundred,  as  Lear  says  of  his  knights. 
Do  you  know  the  history  of  the  air  ?  It  is  cu- 
rious enough.  A  good  many  years  ago,  Mr. 
James  Miller,  writer  in  your  good  town,  a  gentle- 
man whom  possibly  you  know,  was  in  company 
with  our  friend  Clarke ;  and  talking  of  Scottish 
music.  Miller  expressed  an  ardent  amoition  to 
be  able  to  compose  a  Scots  air.  Mr.  Clarke, 
partly  by  way  of  joke,  told  him  to  keep  to  the 
black  keys  of  the  harpsichord,  and  preserve 
some  kind  of  rhythm,  and  he  would  infallibly 
compose  a  Scots  air.  Certain  it  is  that,  in  a 
few  days,  Mr.  Miller  produced  the  rudiments 
of  an  air,  which  Mr.  Clarke,  with  some  touches 
and  corrections,  fashioned  into  the  tune  in  ques- 
tion. Ritson,  you  know,  has  the  same  story 
of  the  black  keys ;  but  this  account  which  I  have 
just  given  you,  Mr.  Clarke  informed  me  of 
several  years  ago.  Now,  to  show  you  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  trace  the  origin  of  our  airs,  I  have 
heard  it  repeatedly  asserted  that  this  was  an 
Irish  air ;  nay,  I  met  with  an  Irish  gentleman 
who  affirmed  he  had  heard  it  in  Ireland  among 
the  old  women;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
countess  informed  me,  that  the  first  person  who 
introduced  the  air  into  this  country,  was  a 
baronet's  lady  of  her  acquaintance,  who  took 
down  the  notes  from  an  itinerant  piper  in  the 
Isle  of  Man.  How  difficult,  then,  to  ascertain 
the  truth  respecting  our  poesy  and  music !  I, 
myself,  have  lately  seen  a  couple  of  ballads  sung 
through  the  streets  of  Dumfries,  with  my  name 
at  the  head  of  them  as  the  author,  though  it 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  them. 

I  thank  you  for  admitting  "  Craigieburn- 
wood,-"  and  I  shall  take  care  to  furnish  you 
with  a  new  chorus.  In  fact,  the  chorus  was 
not  my  work,  but  a  part  of  some  old  verses  to 
the  air.  If  I  can  catch  myself  in  a  more  than 
ordinarily  propitious  moment,  I  shall  write  a 
new  "  Craigieburn-wood"  altogether.  My  heart 
is  much  in  the  theme. 

I  am  ashamed,  my  dear  fellow,  to  make  the 
request ;  'tis  dunning  your  generosity ;  but  in 
a  moment  when  I  had  forgotten  whether  I  was 
rich  or  poor,  I  promised  Chloris  a  copy  of  your 
songs.  It  wrings  my  honest  pride  to  write  you 
this ;  but  an  ungracious  request  is  doubly  so 
by  a  tedious  apology.  To  make  you  some 
amends,  as  soon  as  I  have  extracted  the  neces- 
Bary  information  out  of  them,  I  will  return  you 
Bitsop's  volumes. 


The  lady  is  not  a  little  proud  that  she  is  to 
make  so  distinguished  a  figure  in  your  collec- 
tion, and  I  am  not  a  little  proud  that  I  have  it 
in  my  power  to  please  her  so  much.  Lucky  it 
is  for  your  patience  that  my  paper  is  done,  for 
when  I  am  in  a  scribbling  humour,  I  know  not 
when  to  give  over.  R.  B. 


cccv. 

TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

[Willy  and  Phely,  in  one  of  the  lyrics  which  this  let- 
ter contained,  carry  on  the  pleasant  bandying  of  praise 
till  compliments  grow  scarce,  and  the  lovers  are  reduced 
to  silence.] 

19th  November,  1794. 

You  see,  my  dear  Sir,  what  a  punctual  cor- 
respondent I  am  ;  though,  indeed,  you  may  thank 
yourself  for  the  tedium  of  my  letters,  as  you 
have  so  flattered  me  on  my  horsemanship  with 
my  favourite  hobby,  and  have  praised  the 
grace  of  his  ambling  so  much,  that  I  am  scarcely 
ever  oflP  his  back.  For  instance,  this  morning, 
though  a  keen  blowing  frost,  in  my  walk  before 
breakfast,  I  finished  my  duet,  which  you  were 
pleased  to  praise  so  much.  Whether  I  have 
uniformly  succeeded,  I  will  not  say ;  but  here 
it  is  for  you,  though  it  is  not  an  hour  old 

0  Philly,  happy  be  the  day.^ 

Tell  me  honestly  how  you  like  it,  and  point  out 
whatever  you  think  faulty. 

I  am  much  pleased  with  your  idea  of  singing 
our  songs  in  alternate  stanzas,  and  regret  that 
ycu  did  not  hint  it  to  me  sooner.  In  those  that 
remain,  I  shall  have  it  in  my  eye.  I  remember 
your  objections  to  the  name  Philly,  but  it  is  the 
common  abbreviation  of  Phillis.  Sally,  the  only 
other  name  that  suits,  has  to  my  ear  a  vul- 
garity about  it,  which  unfits  it  for  anything 
except  burlesque.  The  legion  of  Scottish  poet- 
asters of  the  day,  whom  your  brother  editc-r, 
Mr.  Ritson,  ranks  with  me  as  my  coevals,  liavc 
always  mistaken  vulgarity  for  simplicity;  where- 
as, simplicity  is  as  much  eloignie  frcci  vulgarity 
on  the  one  hand,  as  from  affectel  point  and 
puerile  conceit  on  the  other. 

I  agree  with  you  as  to  the  air,  "  Craigieburn- 
wood,"  that  a  chorus  would,  in  some  degree, 
spoil  the  efifect,  and  shall  certainly  have  non« 


Somi  CCXXXV. 


486 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


m  my  projected  song  to  it.  It  is  not,  however, 
a  case  in  point  with  "  Rothemurche;"  there, 
as  in  "Roy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch,"  a  chorus 
goes,  to  my  taste,  well  enough.  As  to  the 
chorus  going  first,  that  is  the  case  with  *•  Roy's 
Wife,"  as  well  as  "Rothemurche."  In  fact,  in 
the  first  part  of  both  tunes,  the  rhythm  is  so 
peculiar  and  irregular,  and  on  that  irregularity 
depends  so  much  of  their  beauty,  that  we  must 
e'en  take  them  with  all  their  wildness,  and 
humour  the  verse  accordingly.  Leaving  out 
the  starting  note  in  both  tunes,  has,  I  think,  an 
efi"ect  that  no  regularity  could  counterbalance 
the  want  of. 

f  Oh  Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch. 

i  0  lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks. 
and 

.^,   f  Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch. 
compare  with-^  ^   ''  ,       .,    .     ,,  ^     ,  .,    ,    , 

t  Lassie  wi  the  lint-white  locks. 


Try, 


Does  not  the  tameness  of  the  prefixed  syllable 
strike  you  ?  In  the  last  case,  with  the  true  furor 
of  genius,  you  strike  at  once  into  the  wild  ori- 
ginality of  the  air  ;  whereas,  in  the  first  insipid 
method,  it  is  like  the  grating  screw  of  the  pins 
before  the  fiddle  is  brought  into  tune.  This  is 
my  taste ;  if  I  am  wrong,  I  beg  pardon  of  the 
cognoscenti. 

"  The  Caledonian  Hunt"  is  so  charming,  that 
it  would  make  any  subject  in  a  song  go  down; 
but  pathos  is  certainly  its  native  tongue.  Scot- 
tish bacchanalians  we  certainly  want,  though 
the  few  we  have  are  excellent.  For  instance, 
"Todlin  hame,"  is,  for  wit  and  humour,  an 
unparalleled  composition;  and  "Andrew  and 
his  cutty  gun"  is  the  work  of  a  master.  By  the 
way,  are  you  not  quite  vexed  to  think  that 
those  men  of  genius,  for  such  they  certainly 
were,  who  composed  our  fine  Scottish  lyrics, 
should  be  unknown  ?  It  has  given  me  many  a 
heart-ache.  Apropos  to  bacchanalian  songs  in 
Scottish,  I  composed  one  yesterday,  for  an  air 
I  like  much — "Lumps  o'  pudding." 

Contented  wi'  little  and  cantie  wi'  mair.* 
If  you  do  not  relish  this  air,  I  will  send  it  to 
Johnson.  R.  B. 


CCCVI. 

TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

I  The  inBtrument  which  the  poet  got  from  the  braes  of 
^thol,  seems  of  an  order  as  rude  and  incapable  of  fine 


Song  CCXXXVI. 


Bounds  as  the  whistles  which  school-boys  make  in  spring 
from  the  smaller  boughs  of  the  plane-tree.] 

Since  yesterday's  penmanship,  I  have  frame<i 
a  couple  of  English  stanzas,  by  way  of  an  Eng- 
lish song  to  "  Roy's  Wife."  You  will  allow  me, 
that  in  this  instance  my  English  corresponds  in 
sentiment  with  the  Scottish. 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ?2 

Well !  I  think  this,  to  be  done  in  two  or  three 
turns  across  my  room,  and  with  two  or  three 
pinches  of  Irish  blackguard,  is  not  so  far  amiss. 
You  see  I  am  determined  to  have  my  quantum 
of  applause  from  somebody. 

Tell  my  friend  Allan  (for  I  am  sure  that  we 
only  want  the  trifling  circumstance  of  being 
known  to  one  another,  to  be  the  best  friends  on 
earth)  that  I  much  suspect  he  has,  in  his  plates, 
mistaken  the  figure  of  the  stock  and  horn.  I 
have,  at  last,  gotten  one,  but  it  is  a  very  rude 
instrument.  It  is  composed  of  three  parts ;  the 
stock,  which  is  the  hinder  thigh-bone  of  a  sheep, 
such  as  you  see  in  a  mutton  ham ;  the  horn, 
which  is  a  common  Highland  cow's  horn,  cut 
off  at  the  smaller  end,  until  the  aperture  be 
large  enough  to  admit  the  stock  to  be  pushed 
up  through  the  horn  until  it  be  held  by  the 
thicker  end  of  the  thigh-bone ;  and  lastly,  an 
oaten  reed  exactly  cut  and  notched  like  that 
which  you  see  every  shepherd  boy  have,  when 
the  corn-stems  are  green  and  full  grown.  The 
reed  is  not  made  fast  in  the  bone,  but  is  held  by 
the  lips,  and  plays  loose  in  the  smaller  end  of 
the  stock ;  while  the  stock,  with  the  horn  hang- 
ing on  its  larger  end,  is  held  by  the  hands  in 
playing.  The  stock  has  six  or  seven  ventages 
on  the  upper  side,  and  one  back-ventage,  like 
the  common  flute.  This  of  mine  was  made  by 
a  man  from  the  braes  of  Athole,  and  is  exactly 
what  the  shepherds  wont  to  use  in  that  country. 

However,  either  it  is  not  quite  propeily  bored 
in  the  holes,  or  else  we  have  not  the  art  of  blow- 
ing it  rightly ;  for  we  can  make  little  of  it.  If 
Mr.  Allan  chooses,  I  will  send  him  a  sight  of 
mine,  as  I  look  on  myself  to  be  a  kind  of  brother- 
brush  with  him.  "  Pride  in  poets  is  nae  sin  ;" 
and  I  will  say  it,  that  I  look  on  Mr.  Allan  and 
Mr.  Burns  to  be  the  only  genuine  and  real 
painters  of  Scottish  costume  in  the  world. 

R.  B. 


2  Song  CCXXXVII 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


487 


ceo  VII. 
TO  PETER  MILLER,   JUN.,   ESQ., 

OF    DALSWINTON. 

rxn  a  conversation  with  James  Perry,  editor  of  the 
Morning  Chronicle,  Mr.  Miller,  who  was  then  member 
for  the  Dumfries  boroughs,  kindly  represented  the  po- 
verty a"  the  poet  and  the  increasing  number  of  his  family : 
Perry  ».i  once  offered  fifty  pounds  a  year  for  any  contri- 
butions he  might  choose  to  make  to  his  newspaper:  the 
reasons  for  his  refusal  are  stated  in  this  letter.] 

Dumfries^  Nov.  1794. 
Dear  Sir, 

Your  offer  is  indeed  truly  generous,  and  most 
sincerely  do  I  thank  you  for  it ;  but  in  my  pre- 
sent situation,  I  find  that  I  dare  not  accept  it. 
You  well  know  my  political  sentiments ;  and 
were  I  an  insular  individual,  unconnected  with 
a  wife  and  a  family  of  children,  with  the  most 
fervid  enthusiasm  I  would  have  volunteered  my 
services  :  I  then  could  and  would  have  despised 
all  consequences  that  might  have  ensued. 

My  prospect  in  the  Excise  is  something ;  at 
least  it  is,  encumbered  as  I  am  with  the  welfare, 
the  very  existence,  of  near  half-a-score  of  help- 
less individuals,  what  I  dare  not  sport  with. 

In  the  mean  time,  they  are  most  welcome  to 
my  Ode ;  only,  let  them  insert  it  as  a  thing  they 
have  met  with  by  accident  and  unknown  to  me. 
— Nay,  if  Mr.  Perry,  whose  honour,  after  your 
character  of  him,  I  cannot  doubt;  if  he  will 
give  me  an  address  and  channel  by  which  any- 
thing will  come  safe  from  those  spies  with  which 
he  may  be  certain  that  his  correspondence  is 
beset,  I  will  now  and  then  send  him  any  bagatelle 
that  I  may  write.  In  the  present  hurry  of 
Europe,  nothing  but  news  and  politics  will  be 
regarded  ;  but  against  the  days  of  peace,  which 
Heaven  send  soon,  my  little  assistance  may  per- 
haps fill  up  an  idle  column  of  a  newspaper.  I 
have  long  had  it  in  my  head  to  try  my  hand  in 
the  way  of  little  prose  essays,  which  I  prop  >se 
seniing  into  the  world  though  the  medium  of 
Bon^3  newspaper ;  and  should  these  be  worth 
his  while,  to  these  Mr.  Perry  shall  be  welcome ; 
and  all  my  reward  shall  be,  his  treating  me 
with  his  paper,  which,  by  the  bye,  to  anybody 
who  has  the  least  relish  for  wit,  is  a  high  treat 
indeed. 

With  the  most  grateful  esteem  I  am  ever, 
Dear  Sir, 

R.  B. 


CCCVIII. 
TO   MR.   SAMUEL   CLARKE,  JUN., 

DUMFRIES. 

[Political  animosities  troubled  society  during  the  dayi 
of  Burns,  as  much  at  least  as  they  distuib  it  now— 'h.i 
letter  is  an  instance  of  It.] 

Sunday  Morning, 
DEAR  Sir, 

I  was,  I  know,  drunk  last  night,  but  I  am 
sober  this  morning.  From  the  expressions 
Capt. made  use  of  to  me,  had  I  had  no- 
body's welfare  to  care  for  but  my  own,  we  should 
certainly  have  come,  according  to  the  manners 
of  the  world,  to  the  necessity  of  murdering  one 
another  about  the  business.  The  words  were 
such  as,  generally,  I  believe,  end  in  a  brace  of 
pistols ;  but  I  am  still  pleased  to  think  that  I 
did  not  ruin  the  peace  and  welfare  of  a  wife  and 
a  family  of  children  in  a  drunken  squabble. 
Farther,  you  know  that  the  report  of  certain  po- 
litical opinions  being  mine,  has  already  once 
before  brought  me  to  the  brink  of  destruction 
I  dread  lest  last  night's  business  may  be  misre- 
presented in  the  same  way. — You,  I  beg,  will 
take  care  to  prevent  it.  I  tax  your  wish  for 
Mr.  Burns's  welfare  with  the  task  of  waiting  as 
soon  as  possible,  on  every  gentleman  who  was 
present,  and  state  this  to  him,  and,  as  you  please, 
show  him  this  letter.  What,  after  all,  was  the 
obnoxious  toast?  *'  May  our  success  in  the  pre- 
sent war  be  equal  to  the  justice  of  our  cause." 
— A  toast  that  the  most  outrageous  frenzy  of 
loyalty  cannot  object  to.  I  request  and  beg 
that  this  morning  you  will  wait  on  the  parties 
present  at  the  foolish  dispute.  I  shall  only  add, 
that  I  am  truly  sorry  that  a  man  who  stood  so 

high  in  my  estimation  as  Mr. ,  should  use 

me  in  the  manner  in  which  I  conceive  he  hoa 
done.  R.  B. 


CCCIX. 
TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[Burns  allowed  for  the  songs  which  Wolcot  wrote  for 
Thoms<in  a  degree  of  lyric  merit  which  the  world  haa 
refused  to  sanction.] 

December^  1794. 

It  is,  I  assure  you,  the  pride  of  my  heart  to 
do  anything  to  forward  or  add  to  the  value  of 
your  book  ;  and  as  I  agree  with  you  that  the 
Jacobite  song  in  the  Museum  to  "  There'll  nevei 


488 


GENERAL  CORllESPONDENCE 


be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame,"  would  not  so 
well  consort  with  Peter  Pindar's  excellent  love- 
song  to  that  air,  I  have  just  framed  for  you  the 
following : — 

Now  in  her  green  mantle,  &c.' 

How  does  this  please  you  ?  As  to  the  point  of 
time  for  the  expression,  in  your  proposed  print 
from  my  "  Sodger's  Return,"  it  must  certainly 
be  at — "She  gaz'd."  The  interesting  dubiety 
and  suspense  taking  possession  of  her  counte- 
nance, and  the  gushing  fondness,  with  a  mix- 
ture of  roguish  playfulness,  in  his,  strike  me  as 
things  of  which  a  master  will  make  a  great  deal. 
In  great  haste,  but  in  great  truth,  yours. 

R.  B. 


CCCX. 

TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

[In  this  brief  and  off-iiand  way  Burns  bestows  on 
Thomson  one  of  the  finest  songs  ever  dedicated  to  the 
cause  of  human  freedom.] 

January,  1795. 

I  FEAR  for  my  songs;  however,  a  few  may 
please,  yet  originality  is  a  coy  feature  in  com- 
position, and  in  a  multiplicity  of  efforts  in  the 
same  style,  disappears  altogether.  For  these 
three  thousand  years,  we  poetic  folks  have  been 
describing  the  spring,  for  instance  ;  and  as  the 
spring  continues  the  same,  there  must  soon  be 
a  sameness  m  the  imagery,  &c.,  of  these  said 
rhyming  folks. 

A  great  critic  (Aikin)  on  songs,  says  that  love 
and  wine  are  the  exclusive  themes  for  song- 
writing.  The  following  is  on  neither  subject, 
and  consequently  is  no  song ;  but  will  be  al- 
lowed, I  think,  to  be  two  or  three  pretty  good 
prose  thoughts  inverted  into  rhyme. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty.^ 

I  do  not  give  you  the  foregoing  song  for  your 
book,  but  merely  by  way  of  vive  la  bagatelle; 
for  the  piece  is  not  really  poetry.  How  will 
Ihe  following  do  for  "  Craigieburn-wood  ?"— 

Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigieburn.^ 

Farewell !  God  bless  you !  R.  B. 


» Song  cnxxxviii. 


2  Song  CCLXIV 


CCCXI. 
TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[Of  this  letter  Dr.  Currie  writes,  "  the  poet  must  have 
been  tipsy  indeed  to  abuse  sweet  Ecclefechan  at  thu 
rate;"  it  is  one  of  the  prettiest  of  our  Annandile  vL 
lages,  and  the  birth-place  of  that  distinguished  biogra 
pher.] 

Ecclefechan,  1th  February,  1795, 
My  dear  Thomson, 

You  cannot  have  any  idea  of  the  predicament 
in  which  I  write  to  you.  In  the  course  of  my 
duty  as  supervisor  (in  which  capacity  I  have 
acted  of  late),  I  came  yesternight  to  this  unfor- 
tunate, wicked  little  village.  I  have  gone  for- 
ward, but  snows  of  ten  feet  deep  have  impeded 
my  progress:  I  have  tried  to  "  gae  back  the 
gate  I  cam  again,"  but  the  same  obstacle  has 
shut  me  up  within  insuperable  bars.  To  add 
to  my  misfortune,  since  dinner,  a  scraper  has 
been  torturing  catgut,  in  sounds  that  would 
have  insulted  the  dying  agonies  of  a  sow  under 
the  hands  of  a  butcher,  and  thinks  himself,  on 
that  very  account,  exceeding  good  company. 
In  fact,  I  have  been  in  a  dilemma,  either  to  get 
drunk,  to  forget  these  miseries ;  or  to  hang 
myself,  to  get  rid  of  them  :  like  a  prudent  man 
(a  character  congenial  to  my  every  thought, 
word,  and  deed),  I  of  two  evils  have  chosen  the 
least,  and  am  very  drunk,  at  your  service ! 

I  wrote  you  yesterday  from  Dumfries.  I  had 
not  time  then  to  tell  you  all  I  wanted  to  say ; 
and.  Heaven  knows,  at  present  I  have  not  ca- 
pacity. 

Do  you  know  an  air — I  am  sure  you  must 
know  it — "We'll  gang  nae  mair  to  yon  town  ?" 
I  think,  in  slowish  time,  it  would  make  an  ex- 
cellent song.  I  am  highly  delighted  with  it ; 
and  if  you  should  think  it  worthy  of  your  atten- 
tion, I  have  a  fair  dame  in  my  eye  to  whom  I 
would  consecrate  it. 

As  I  am  just  going  to  bed,  I  wish  you  a  gooi 
night.  R.  B. 


CCCXII. 
TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  song  of  Caledonia,  in  honour  of  Mrs.  Burns,  wat 
accompanied  by  two  others  in  honour  of  the  poet's  nu*- 

3  Song  CCXLV. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


45& 


trDB?  ■  the  muse  was  high  in  song,  and  used  few  words 
in  the  letter  which  enclosed  them.] 

May,  1795. 

0  STAT,  sweet  warbling  woodlark,  stay!' 

Let  me  know,  your  very  first  leisure,  how 
you  like  this  song. 

Long,  long  the  night.2 

How  d:  you  like  the  foregoing?  The  Irish 
air,  "  Humours  of  Glen,"  is  a  great  favourite 
of  mine,  and  as,  except  the  silly  stuff  in  the 
"  Poor  Soldier,"  there  are  not  any  decent  verses 
for  it,  I  have  written  for  it  as  follows : — 

Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 
reckon.' 


Let  me  hear  from  you. 


R.  B. 


CCCXIII. 


TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  poe*  calls  for  praise  in  this  letter,  a  species  of 
eoin  which  is  always  ready.] 

How  cruel  are  the  parents.  4 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion.^ 

Well,  this  is  not  amiss.  You  see  how  I  an- 
swer your  orders — your  tailor  could  not  be  more 
punctual.  I  am  just  now  in  a  high  fit  for  poet- 
izing, provided  that  the  strait-jacket  of  criti- 
cism don't  cure  me.  If  you  can,  in  a  post  or 
two,  administer  a  little  of  the  intoxicating  po- 
tion of  your  applause,  it  will  raise  your  humble 
servant's  phrensy  to  any  height  you  want.  I 
am  at  this  moment  *'  holding  high  converse" 
with  the  muses,  and  have  not  a  word  to  throw 
away  on  such  a  prosaic  dog  as  you  are. 

R.  B. 


CCCXIV. 
TO  MR.    THOMSON. 

[Thomson  at  this  time  sent  the  drawing  to  Bums  in 
which  David  Allan  sought  to  embody  the  "  Cotter'i 
Saturday  Night:"  it  displayaatoncethe  talent  and  want 
nf  taste  of  the  ingenious  artist.] 

May,  1795. 

Ten  thousand  thanks  for  your  elegant  pre- 
sent— though  I  am  ashamed  of  the  value  of  it, 


«  8««»s:  CCXLIX.        «  Song  CCL.        »  Song  CCLI. 


being  bestowed  on  a  man  who  has  not,  by  any 
means,  merited  such  an  instance  of  kindness. 
I  have  shown  it  to  two  or  three  judges  of  the 
first  abilities  here,  and  they  all  agree  with  me 
in  classing  it  as  a  first-rate  production.  My 
phiz  is  sae  kenspeckle,  that  the  very  joiner'a 
apprentice,  whom  Mrs.  Burns  employed  to  break 
.up  the  parcel  (I  was  out  of  town  that  day)  knew 
it  at  once.  My  most  grateful  compliments  to 
Allan,  who  has  honoured  my  rustic  music  so 
much  with  his  masterly  pencil.  One  strange 
coincidence  is,  that  the  little  one  who  is  making 
the  felonious  attempt  on  the  cat's  tail,  is  the 
most  striking  likeness  of  an  ill-deedie,  d — n'd, 
wee,  rumblegairie  urchin  of  mine,  whom  from 
that  propensity  to  witty  wickedness,  and  man- 
fu*  mischief,  which,  even  at  twa  days  auld,  I 
foresaw  would  form  the  striking  features  of  his 
disposition,  I  named  Willie  Nicol,  after  a  cer- 
tain friend  of  mine,  who  is  one  of  the  masters 
of  a  grammar-school  in  a  city  which  shall  be 
nameless. 

Give  the  enclosed  epigram  to  my  much-va- 
lued friend  Cunningham,  and  tell  him,  that  on 
Wednesday  I  go  to  visit  a  friend  of  his,  to 
whom  his  friendly  partiality  in  speaking  of  me 
in  a  manner  introduced  me — I  mean  a  well- 
known  military  and  literary  character,  Colonel 
Dirom. 

You  do  not  tell  me  how  you  liked  my  two  last 
songs.     Are  they  condemned  ? 

R.  B 


CCOXV. 
TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[In  allusion  to  the  preceding  letter,  Thomson  says  to 
Burns,  "  You  really  make  me  blush  when  you  tell  me 
you  have  not  merited  the  drawing  from  me."  The  "  For 
a'  that  and  a'  that,"  which  went  with  this  letter,  was,  it 
18  believed,  the  composition  of  Mrs.  Riddel.] 

In  "  Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad," 
the  iteration  of  that  line  is  tiresome  to  my  ear. 
Here  goes  what  I  think  is  an  improvement : — 

Oh  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lal; 
Oh  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 
Tho'  father  and  mother  and  a'  should  gae  mad. 
Thy  Jeanie  will  venture  wi'  ye,  my  lad. 

In  fact,  a  fair  dnme,  at  whose  shrine  I,  the 
priest  of  the  Nine,  oflfer  up  the  incense  of  Par- 
nassus— a  dame  whom  the  Graces  have  attired 


4  Sonf  CCLIII. 


6  Song  CCUV 


490 


GENERAL    COKKEsI'ONDENCE" 


in  witchcraft,  and  whom  the  Loves  have  armed 
with  lightning— a  fair  one,  herself  the  heroine 
of  the  song,  insists  on  the  amendment,  and  dis- 
pute her  commands  if  you  dare  ? 

This  is  no  my  ain  lassie,'  &c. 

Do  you  know  that  you  have  roused  the  torpi- 
dity of  Clarke  at  last?  He  has  requested  me  to 
write  three  or  four  songs  for  him,  which  he  is 
to  set  to  music  himself.  The  enclosed  sheet 
contains  two  songs  for  him,  which  please  to  pre- 
sent to  my  valued  friend  Cunningham. 

I  enclose  the  sheet  open,  both  for  your  inspec- 
tion, and  that  you  may  copy  the  song  "  Oh  bon- 
nie  was  yon  rosy  brier."  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  am  right,  but  that  song  pleases  me ;  and  as  it 
is  extremely  probable  that  Clarke's  newly- 
roused  celestial  spark  will  be  soon  smothered  in 
the  fogs  of  indolence,  if  you  like  the  song,  it 
may  go  as  Scottish  verses  to  the  air  of  "  I  wish 
my  love  was  in  a  mire ;"  and  poor  Erskine's 
English  lines  may  follow. 

I  enclose  you  a  "  For  a'  that  and  a'  that," 
which  was  never  in  print :  it  is  a  much  superior 
Bong  to  mine.  I  have  been  told  that  it  was 
composed  by  a  lady,  and  some  lines  written  on 
the  blank  leaf  of  a  copy  of  the  last  edition  of 
my  poems,  presented  to  the  lady  whom,  in  so 
many  fictitious  reveries  of  passion,  but  with  the 
most  ardent  sentiments  of  real  friend^hip,  I 
have  so  often  sung  under  the  name  of  Chloris  : — 

To  Chloris.2 


Une  bagatelle  de  VamitU. 


COILA. 

K  B. 


CCCXVI. 

TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

[In  the  double  service  of  poesy  and  music  the  poet  had 
CO  sing  of  pangs  wliich  he  never  endured,  from  beauties 
to  wliom  he  iiad  never  spoken.] 

FoRLGEN  my  love,  no  comfort  near,  &c.' 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing  ?  I  have  writ- 
ten it  within  this  hour  :  so  much  for  the  speed 
of  my  Pegasus;  but  what  say  you  to  his  bott  jm  ? 

R.  B. 


Bo-jg  CCLV 


2  Poems,  No.  CXLVI. 
S,ing  CCLVIII. 


CCOXVII. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[The  unexampled  brevity  of  Burns's  letters,  and  tha 
extraordinary  flow  and  grace  af  nis  songs,  towa'ds  the 
close  of  his  life,  have  not  now  for  the  first  tin.e  I  eon 
remarked.] 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer.* 

Why,  why  tell  thy  lover.^ 

Such  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  rhythm  of  this 
air,  that  I  find  it  impossible  to  make  another 
stanza  to  suit  it. 

I  am  at  present  quite  occupied  with  the  charm- 
ing sensations  of  the  toothache,  so  have  not  a 
word  to  spare.  R.  B. 


cccxvm. 

TO   MRS.   RIDDEL. 

Supposes  himself  to  he  writing  from  the  dead  to  the 
living. 

[Ill  health,  poverty,  a  sense  of  dependence,  with  tha 
much  he  had  deserved  of  his  country,  and  the  little  he 
had  obtained,  were  all  at  this  time  pressing  on  the  mind 
of  Burns,  and  inducing  him  to  forget  what  was  due  to 
himself  as  well  as  to  the  courtesies  of  life.] 

Madam, 
I  DARE  say  that  this  is  the  first  epistle  you 
ever  received  from  this  nether  wdrld.  I  write 
you  from  the  regions  of  Hell,  amid  the  horrors 
of  the  damned.  The  time  and  the  manner  of 
my  leaving  your  earth  I  do  not  exactly  know,  as 
I  took  my  departure  in  the  heat  of  a  fever  of 
intoxication  contracted  at  your  too  hospitable 
mansion ;  but,  on  my  arrival  here,  I  was  fairly 
tried,  and  sentenced  to  endure  the  purgatorial 
tortures  of  this  infernal  confine  for  the  space  of 
ninety-nine  years,  eleven  months,  and  twenty- 
nine  days,  and  all  on  account  of  the  impropriety 
of  my  conduct  yesternight  under  your  roof. 
Here  am  I,  laid  on  a  bed  of  pitiless  furze,  with 
my  aching  head  reclined  on  a  pillow  of  ever- 
piercing  thorn,  while  an  infernal  tormentor, 
wrinkled,  and  old,  and  cruel,  his  name  I  think 
is  Recollection,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  forbids 
peace  or  rest  to  approach  me,  and  keeps  anguish 
eternally  awake.  Still,  Madam,  if  I  could  in 
any  measure  be  reinstated  in  the  good  opinion 
of  the  fair  circle  whom  my  conduct  last  night 


4  Song  CCLIX. 


6  Song  CCIiX. 


Ot^   ROBERT    BURNS. 


49i 


«o  much  injured,  I  think  it  would  be  an  allevia- 
tion to  my  torments.  For  this  reason  I  trouble 
you  with  this  letter.  To  the  men  of  the  company 
I  will  make  no  apology. — Your  husband,  who 
insisted  on  my  drinking  more  than  I  chose,  has 
no  right  to  blame  me ;  and  the  other  gentlemen 
were  partakers  of  my  guilt.  But  to  you,  Madam, 
I  have  much  to  apologize.  Your  good  opinion  I 
valued  as  one  of  the  greatest  acquisitions  I  had 
made  on  earth,  and  I  was  truly  a  beast  to  forfeit 

it      There  was  a  Miss  I ,  too,  a  woman  of 

fine  sense,  gentle  and  unassuming  manners — do 
make  on  my  part,  a  miserable  d-mned  wretch's 

best  apology  to  her.    A  Mrs.  G ,  a  charming 

woman,  did  me  the  honour  to  be  prejudiced  in 
my  favour ;  this  makes  me  hope  that  I  have  not 
outraged  her  beyond  all  forgiveness. — To  all  the 
other  ladies  please  present  my  humblest  contri- 
tion for  my  conduct,  and  my  petition  for  their 
gracious  pardon.  0  all  ye  powers  of  decency 
and  decorum  !  whisper  to  them  that  my  errors, 
though  great,  were  involuntary — that  an  intoxi- 
cated man  is  the  vilest  of  beasts — that  it  was 
not  in  my  nature  to  be  brutal  to  any  one — that 
to  be  rude  to  a  woman,  when  in  my  senses,  was 
impossible  with  me — but — 

****** 

Regret !  Remorse !  Shame !  ye  three  hell- 
hounds that  ever  dog  my  steps  and  bay  at  my 
heels,  spare  me !  spare  me ! 

Forgive  the  offences,  and  pity  the  perdition 
of,  Madam,  your  humble  slave. 

R.  B. 


CCCXIX. 

TO   MRS.    RIDDEL. 

[Mrs.  Riddel,  it  is  said,  possessed  many  more  of  the 
poet's  letters  than  are  printed — she  sometimes  read  them 
to  friends  who  could  feel  their  wit,  and,  like  herailf, 
nake  allo'vunce  for  their  freedom.] 

Dumfries,  1795. 
Mr.  BuRXrf*'  compliments  to  Mrs.  Riddel  — 
is  much  obliged  to  her  for  her  polite  attention 
in  set  ding  him  the  book.  Owing  to  Mr.  B.'s 
oeing  at  present  acting  as  supervisor  of  excise, 
a  department  that  occupies  his  every  hour  of 
the  dny,  he  has  not  that  time  to  spare  which  is 
necessary  for  any  belle-lettre  pursuit ;  but,  as 
he  will,  in  a  week  or  two,  again  return  to  his 
wonted  leisure,  he  will  then  pay  that  attention 
io  Mrs.  R.'s  beautiful  song,    "To  thee,  loved 


Nith"— which  it  so  well  deserves.  When  "  Ana- 
charsis'  Travels"  come  to  hand,  which  Mrs. 
Riddel  mentioned  as  her  gift  to  the  public  li- 
brary, Mr.  B.  will  thank  her  for  a  reading  of  it 
previous  to  her  sending  it  to  the  library,  as  it  is 
a  book  Mr.  B.  has  never  seen :  he  wishes  to  have 
a  longer  perusal  of  them  than  the  regulations 
of  the  library  allow. 

Friday  Eve. 
P.  S.     Mr.  Bums  will  be  much  obliged  to 
Mrs.  Riddel  if  she  will  favour  him  with  a  peru- 
sal  of  any  of  her  poetical  pieces  which  he  may 
not  have  seen.  R.  B 


cccxx. 

TO  MISS   LOUISA  PONTENELLE. 

[That  Miss  Fontenelle,  as  an  actress,  did  not  deserva 
the  high  praise  which  Burns  bestows  may  be  guessed; 
the  lines  to  which  he  alludes  were  recited  by  the  ladyoa 
her  benefit-night,  and  are  printed  among  his  Poems.] 

Dumfries,  December,  1795. 
Madam, 

In  such  a  bad  world  as  ours,  those  who  add 
to  the  scanty  sum  of  our  pleasures,  are  posi- 
tively our  benefactors.  To  you.  Madam,  on 
our  humble  Dumfries  boards,  I  have  been  more 
indebted  for  entertainment  than  ever  I  was  in 
prouder  theatres.  Your  charms  as  a  woman 
would  insure  applause  to  the  most  indiflFerent 
actress,  and  your  theatrical  talents  would  in- 
sure admiration  to  the  plainest  figure.  This, 
Madam,  is  not  the  unmeaning  or  insidious  com- 
pliment of  the  frivolous  or  interested  ;  I  pay  it 
from  the  same  honest  impulse  that  the  sublime 
of  nature  excites  my  admiration,  or  her  beauties 
give  me  delight. 

Will  the  foregoing  lines  be  of  any  service  to 
you  in  your  approaching  benefit-night  ?  If  they 
will  I  shall  be  prouder  of  my  muse  than  ever. 
They  are  nearly  extempore  :  I  know  they  have 
no  great  merit ;  but  though  they  should  add  but 
little  to  the  entertainment  of  the  evening,  they 
give  me  the  happiness  of  an  opportunity  to  de- 
clare how  much  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 

R.  B. 


i92 


GENEKAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


CCCXXI. 
TO  MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[Of  the  Bweet  girl  to  whom  Burns  alludes  in  this  letter 
he  w.-iB  deprived  during  this  year:  her  death  pressed 
lorely  on  him.] 

16th  December,  1796. 

My  dear  Feiend, 

As  1  am  in  a  complete  Decemberish  humour, 
glof  my,  sullen,  stupid  as  even  the  Deity  of  Dul- 
ness  herself  could  wish,  I  shall  not  drawl  out  a 
heavy  letter  with  a  number  of  heavier  apologies 
for  my  late  silence.  Only  one  I  shall  mention, 
because  I  know  you  will  sympathize  in  it :  these 
four  months,  a  sweet  little  girl,  my  youngest 
child,  has  been  so  ill,  that  every  day,  a  week  or 
less,  threatened  to  terminate  her  existence. 
There  had  much  need  be  many  pleasures  an- 
nexed to  the  states  of  husband  and  father,  for, 
God  knows,  they  have  many  peculiar  cares.  I 
cannot  describe  to  you  the  anxious,  sleepless 
hours  these  ties  frequently  give  me.  I  see  a 
train  of  helpless  little  folks ;  me  and  my  exer- 
tions all  their  stay:  and  on  what  a  brittle 
thread  does  the  life  of  man  hang  !  If  I  am  nipt 
off  at  the  command  of  fate !  even  in  all  the  vigour 
of  manhood  as  I  am — such  things  happen  every 
day — gracious  God  !  what  would  become  of  my 
little  flock !  'Tis  here  that  I  envy  your  people 
of  fortune. — A  father  on  his  death-bed,  taking 
an  everlasting  leave  of  his  children,  has  indeed 
woe  enough  ;  but  the  man  of  competent  fortune 
leaves  his  sons  and  daughters  independency  and 
friends ;  while  I — but  I  shall  run  distracted  if 
I  think  any  longer  on  the  subject! 

To  leave  talking  of  the  matter  so  gravely,  I 
Bhall  sing  with  the  old  Scots  ballad — 

"  O  that  I  had  ne'er  been  married, 
I  would  never  had  nae  care; 
Now  I've  gotten  wife  and  bairns, 
They  cry  crowdie  !  evermair. 

Crowdie !  ance;  crowdie!   twice; 

Crowdie  !  three  times  in  a  day ; 
An  ye  crowdie  !  ony  mair, 

Ye'll  crowdie  !  a'  my  meal  away." — 
****** 

December  2ith. 
We  have  had  a  brilliant  theatre  here  this  sea- 
Bon ;  only,  as  all  other  business  does,  it  experi- 
ences a  stagnation  of  trade  from  the  epidemical 
complaint  of  the  country,  want  of  cash.  I  men- 
tioned our  theatre  merely  to  lug  in  an  occasional 
Address  which  I  wrote  for  the  benefit-night  of 
ine  of  the  actresses,  and  which  is  as  follows : — 


ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN   BY  MISS   FONTENELLB  CM   HER  BENEFIT-HIOHT, 
DEC.  4,    1795,   AT    THE    THEATRE,    DUMFRIKB. 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour,  &c. 

25th,  Christmas-Morning. 

This,  my  much-loved  friend,  is  a  morning  of 
wishes — accept  mine — so  heaven  hear  me  as 
they  are  sincere !  that  blessings  may  attend  your 
steps,  and  affliction  know  you  not !  In  the 
charming  words  of  my  favourite  author,  "  The 
Man  of  Feeling,"  "May  the  Great  Spirit  bear 
up  the  weight  of  thy  gray  hairs,  and  blunt  the 
arrow  that  brings  them  rest !" 

Now  that  I  talk  of  authors,  how  do  you  like 
Cowper  ?  Is  not  the  *'  Task"  a  glorious  poem  ? 
The  religion  of  the  "  Task,"  bating  a  few  scraps 
of  Calvinistic  divinity,  is  the  religion  of  God 
and  nature ;  the  religion  that  exalts,  that  en- 
nobles man.  Were  not  you  to  send  me  your 
"  Zeluco,"  in  return  for  mine  ?  Tell  me  how 
you  like  my  marks  and  notes  through  the  book. 
I  would  not  give  a  farthing  for  a  book,  unless  I 
were  at  liberty  to  blot  it  with  my  criticisms. 

I  have  lately  collected,  for  a  friend's  perusal, 
all  my  letters ;  I  mean  those  which  I  first 
sketched,  in  a  rough  draught,  and  afterwards 
wrote  out  fair.  On  looking  over  some  old  musty 
papers,  which,  from  time  to  time,  I  had  par- 
celled by,  as  trash  that  were  scarce  worth  pre- 
serving, and  which  yet  at  the  same  time  I  did 
not  care  to  destroy  ;  I  discovered  many  of  these 
rude  sketches,  and  have  written,  and  am  writ- 
ing them  out,  in  a  bound  MS.  for  my  friend's 
library.  As  I  wrote  always  to  you  the  rhap- 
sody of  the  moment,  I  cannot  find  a  single  scroll 
to-  you,  except  one  about  the  commencement  of 
our  acquaintance.  If  there  were  any  possible 
conveyance,  I  would  send  you  a  perusal  of  my 
book.  R.  B. 


CCCXXII. 


TO  MR.  ALEXANDER  FINDLATER, 

SUPERVISOR    OF   EXCISE,    DUMFRIES. 

[The  person  to  whom  this  letter  is  addressed,  is  the 
same  who  lately  denied  that  Burns  was  harshly  used  by 
the  Board  of  Excise  :  but  those,  and  they  are  many,  who 
believe  what  the  poet  wrote  to  Erskine,  of  Mar,  cannot 
agree  with  Mr.  Findlater.] 

Sir, 
Enclosed  are  the  two  schemes.     I  would  not 
have  troubled  you  with  the  collector's  one,  but 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


493 


for  suspicion  lest  it  be  not  right.  Mr.  Erskine 
promised  me  to  make  it  right,  if  you  will  have 
the  goodness  to  show  him  how.  As  I  have  no 
copy  of  the  scheme  for  myself,  and  the  altera- 
tions being  very  considerable  from  what  it  was 
formerly,  I  hope  that  I  shall  have  access  to  this 
scheme  I  send  you,  when  I  come  to  face  up  my 
new  books.  So  much  for  schemes. — And  that  no 
scheme  to  betray  a  friend,  or  mislead  a  stbax- 
QEu;  to  seduce  a  young  girl,  or  rob  a  hen- 
roost; to  subvert  liberty,  or  bribe  an  excise- 
man ;  to  disturb  the  general  assembly,  or 
annoy  a  gossipping  ;  to  overthrow  the  credit 
of  ORTHODOXY,  or  the  authority  of  old  songs  ; 
to  oppose  i/our  wishes,  or  frustrate  my  hopes — may 
prosper — is  the  sincere  wish  and  prayer  of 

R.  B. 


CCCXXIII. 


TO   THE   EDITOR   OF   THE   MORN- 
ING CHRONICLE. 

(Cromek  says,  when  a  neighbour  complained  that  his 
copy  of  the  Morning  Chronicle  was  not  regularly  de- 
livered to  him  from  the  post-office,  the  poet  wrote  the 
following  indignant  letter  to  Perry  on  a  leaf  of  his  excise- 
book,  but  before  it  went  to  the  post  he  reflected  and 
•ecalled  it.] 

Dumfries,  1795. 
Sib, 

You  will  see  by  your  subscribers'  list,  that  I 
have  been  about  nine  months  of  that  number. 

I  am  sorry  to  inform  you,  that  in  that  time, 
seven  or  eight  of  your  papers  either  have  never 
been  sent  me,  or  else  have  never  reached  me. 
To  be  deprived  of  any  one  number  of  the  first 
newspaper  in  Great  Britain  for  information, 
ability,  and  independence,  is  what  I  can  ill 
brook  and  bear ;  but  to  be  deprived  of  that  most 
admirable  oration  of  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne, 
when  he  made  the  great  though  ineffectual  at- 
tempt (in  the  language  of  the  poet,  I  fear  too 
true),  "  to  save  a  sinking  state" — this  was  a 
■•oss  that  I  neither  can  nor  will  forgive  you. — 
That  paper.  Sir,  never  reached  me;  but  I  de- 
mand it  of  you.  I  am  a  Briton  ;  and  must  be 
interested  in  the  cause  of  liberty: — I  am  a 
MAN  ;  and  the  rights  of  human  natubk  cannot 
be  indifferent  to  me.  However,  do  not  let  me 
mislead  you :  I  am  not  a  man  in  that  situation 
of  life,  which,  as  your  subscriber,  can  be  of 
any  consequence  to  you,  in  the  eyes  of  those  to 
whom  situation  of  life  alone  is  the  criterion 
of  MAN. — J  am  but  a  plain  tradesman,  in  this 


distant,  obscure  country  town  :  but  that  humble 
domicile  in  which  I  shelter  my  wife  and  children 
is  the  Castellum  of  a  Briton  ;  and  that  scanty, 
hard-earned  income  which  supports  them  is  as 
truly  my  property,  as  the  most  magnificent 
fortune,  of  the  most  ?ui8Sant  member  of  yc  ir 

house  of  NOBLES. 

These,  Sir,  are  my  sentiments ;  and  to  them 
I  subscribe  my  name :  and  were  I  a  man  of 
ability  and  consequence  enough  to  address  th« 
public,  with  that  name  should  they  appeal. 

I  am,  &c. 


CCCXXIV. 
To   MR.    HERON, 

OF    HERON. 

[Of  Patrick  Heron,  of  Kerroughtree,  something  hat 
been  said  in  the  notes  on  the  Ballads  which  bear  hia 
name.] 

Dumfries,  1794,  or  1795. 
Sib, 
I  ENCLOSE  you  some  copies  of  a  couple  of  po- 
litical ballads  ;    one  of  which,  I  believe,  you 
have   never   seen.     Would   to  Heaven  I  could 
make  you  master  of  as  many  votes  in  the  Stew- 

artry — but — 

"  Who  does  the  utmost  that  he  can. 
Does  well,  acts  nobly,  angels  could  no  more." 

In  order  to  bring  my  humble  efforts  to  bear 
with  more  effect  on  the  foe,  I  have  privately 
printed  a  good  many  copies  of  both  ballads,  and 
have  sent  them  among  friends  all  about  the 
country. 

To  pillory  on  Parnassus  the  rank  reprobation 
of  character,  the  utter  dereliction  of  all  prin- 
ciple, in  a  profligate  junto  which  has  not  only 
outraged  virtue,  but  violated  common  decency  ; 
which,  spurning  even  hypocrisy  as  paltry  ini- 
quity below  their  daring; — to  unmask  their 
flagitiousness  to  the  broadest  day — to  deliver 
such  over  to  their  merited  fate,  is  surely  not 
merely  innocent,  but  laudable ;  is  not  only  pro 
priety,  but  virtue.  You  have  already,  as  your 
auxiliary,  the  sober  detestation  of  mankind  on 
the  heads  of  your  opponents;  and  *  swear  by 
the  lyre  of  Thalia  to  muster  on  your  aide  all 
the  votaries  of  honest  laughter,  and  fair,  candid 
ridicule ! 

I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind 
mention  of  my  interests  in  a  letter  which  Mr. 
Syme  showed  me.  At  present  my  situation  in 
life  most  be  in  a  great  measure  stationary,  at 


494 


GENERAL   CORRESPONDENCE 


least  for  two  or  three  years.  The  statement  is 
this — I  am  on  the  supervisors'  list,  and  as  we 
come  on  there  by  precedency,  in  two  or  three 
years  I  shall  be  at  the  head  of  that  list,  and  be 
appointed  of  course.  Then,  a  friend  might  be 
of  service  to  me  in  getting  me  into  a  place  of 
the  kingdom  which  I  would  like.  A  supervisor's 
income  varies  from  about  a  hundred  and  twenty 
to  two  hundred  a  year ;  but  the  business  is  an 
incessant  drudgery,  and  would  be  nearly  a 
complete  bar  to  every  species  of  literary  pur- 
suit. The  moment  I  am  appointed  supervisor, 
in  the  common  routine,  I  may  be  nominated  on 
the  collector's  list;  and  this  is  always  a  busi- 
ness purely  of  political  patronage.  A  collector- 
ship  varies  much,  from  better  than  two  hundred 
a  year  to  near  a  thousand.  They  also  come 
forward  by  precedency  on  the  list ;  and  have, 
besides  a  handsome  income,  a  life  of  complete 
leisure.  A  life  of  literary  leisure  with  a  decent 
competency,  is  the  summit  of  my  wishes.  It 
would  be  the  prudish  affectation  of  silly  pride 
in  me  to  say  that  I  do  not  need,  or  would  not 
be  indebted  to  a  political  friend ;  at  the  same 
time,  Sir,  I  by  no  means  lay  my  affairs  before 
you  thus,  to  hook  my  dependent  situation  on 
your  benevolence.  If,  in  my  progress  of  life, 
an  opening  should  occur  where  the  good  offices 
of  a  gentleman  of  your  public  character  and 
political  consequence  might  bring  me  forward, 
I  shall  petition  your  goodness  with  the  same 
frankness  as  I  now  do  myself  the  honour  to  sub- 
Bcribe  myself  R.  B. 


CCCXXV. 
TO   MRS.   DUNLOP, 

IN   LONDON. 

rin  the  correspondence  of  the  poet  with  Mrs.  DunJop 
ue  rarely  mentions  Thomson's  Collection  of  Songs, 
thoufrh  his  heart  was  set  much  upon  it:  in  the  Dunlop 
.ihrjiry  there  are  many  letters  from  the  poet,  it  is  said, 
which  have  not  been  published.] 

Dumfries,  20th  December,  1795. 
I  HAVE  been  prodigiously  disappointed  in  this 
London  journey  of  yours.     In  the  first  place,  | 
when  your  last  to  me  reached  Djumfries,  I  was  i 
in  *4ie  country,  and  did  not  return  until  too  ' 
late  to  answer  your  letter  ;  in  the  next  place,  I 
thought  you  would  certainly  take  this  route; 
and  now  I  know  not  what  is  become  of  you,  or  i 


whether  this  may  reach  you  at  all.  God  grant 
that  it  may  find  you  and  yours  in  prospering 
health  and  good  spirits !  Do  let  me  hear  from 
you  the  soonest  possible. 

As  I  hope  to  get  a  frank  from  my  friend  Cap- 
tain Miller,  I  shall  every  leisure  hour,  take  up 
the  pen,  and  gossip  away  whatever  comes  first, 
prose  or  poetry,  sermon  or  song.  In  this  last 
article  I  have  abounded  of  late.  I  have  often 
mentioned  to  you  a  superb  publication  of  Scot- 
tish songs  which  is  making  its  appearance  in 
your  great  metropolis,  and  where  I  have  the 
honour  to  preside  over  the  Scottish  verse,  as  no 
less  a  personage  than  Peter  Pindar  does  ove* 
the  English. 

December  29th. 

Since  I  began  this  letter,  I  have  been  ap- 
pointed to  act  in  the  capacity  of  supervisor 
here,  and  I  assure  you,  what  with  the  load  of 
business,  and  what  with  that  business  being 
new  to  me,  I  could  scarcely  have  commanded 
ten  minutes  to  have  spoken  to  you,  had  you 
been  in  town,  much  less  to  have  written  you 
an  epistle.  This  appointment  is  only  temporary, 
and  during  the  illness  of  the  present  incumbent ; 
but  I  look  forward  to  an  early  period  when  I 
shall  be  appointed  in  full  form :  a  consumma- 
tion devoutly  to  be  wished !  My  political  sins 
seem  to  be  forgiven  me. 

This  is  the  season  (New-year's-day  is  now  my 
date)  of  wishing  ;  and  mine  are  most  fervently 
offered  up  for  you !  May  life  to  you  be  a  posi- 
tive blessing  while  it  lasts,  for  your  own  sake ; 
and  that  it  may  yet  be  greatly  prolonged,  is  my 
wish  for  my  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the 
rest  of  your  friends  !  What  a  transient  business 
is  life !  Very  lately  I  was  a  boy ;  but  t'other 
day  I  was  a  young  man;  and  I  already  begin 
to  feel  the  rigid  fibre  and  stiffening  joints  of 
old  age  coming  fast  o'er  my  frame.  With  all 
my  follies  of  youth,  and  I  fear,  a  few  vices  of 
manhood,  still  I  congratulate  myself  on  having 
had  in  early  days  religion  strongly  impressed 
on  my  mind.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  any  one 
as  to  which  sect  he  belongs  to,  or  what  creed  he 
believes  :  but  I  look  on  the  man,  who  is  firmly 
persuaded  of  infinite  wisdom  and  goodness,  su- 
perintending and  directing  every  circumstance 
that  can  happen  in  his  lot — I  felicitate  such  a 
man  as  having  a  solid  foundation  for  his  mental 
enjoyment ;  a  firm  prop  and  sure  stay,  in  the 
hour  of  difficulty,  trouble,  and  distress  ;  and  a 
never-failing  anchor  of  hope,  when  he  looks  be- 
yond the  grave. 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


495 


January  YLih. 

You  will  have  seen  our  worthy  and  ingenious 
friend,  the  Doctor,  long  ere  this.  I  hope  he  is 
well,  and  beg  to  be  remembered  to  him,  I  have 
just  been  reading  over  again,  I  dare  say  for  the 
hundred  and  fiftieth  time,  his  View  of  Society  and 
Manners ;  and  still  I  read  it  with  delight.  His 
humoui  is  perfectly  original — it  is  neither  the 
humour  of  Addison,  nor  Swift,  nor  Sterne,  nor 
of  anybody  but  Dr.  Moore.  By  the  bye,  you 
have  dti)rived  me  of  Zeluco,  remember  that, 
when  yoa  are  disposed  to  rake  up  the  sins  of 
my  negltot  from  among  the  ashes  of  my  laziness. 

He  ha»  paid  me  a  pretty  compliment,  by  quot- 
ing lilts  in  his  last  publication.' 

****** 

R.  B. 


CCCXXVI. 


ADDRESS  OF  THE  SCOTCH  DISTILLERS 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  WILLIAM  PITT. 

[This  ironical  letter  to  the  prime  minister  was  found 
among  the  papers  of  Burns.] 

Sir, 
While  pursy  burgesses  crowd  your  gate,  sweat- 
ing under  the  weight  of  heavy  addresses,  per- 
mit us,  the  quondam  distillers  in  that  part  of 
Great  Britain  called  Scotland,  to  approach  you, 
not  with  venal  approbation,  but  with  fraternal 
condolence  ;  not  as  what  you  are  just  now,  or 
for  some  time  have  been ;  but  as  what,  in  all 
probability,  you  will  shortly  be. — We  shall  have 
the  merit  of  not  deserting  our  friends  in  the 
day  of  their  calamity,  and  you  will  have  the 
satisfaction  of  perusing  at  least  one  honest  ad- 
dress. You  are  well  acquainted  with  the  dis- 
section of  human  nature;  nor  do  you  need  the 
assistance  of  a  fellow-creature's  bosom  to  in- 
form you,  that  man  is  always  a  selfish,  often  a 
perfiiV.Du.s  being. — This  assertion,  however  the 
hasty  conclusions  of  superficial  observation  may 
doubt  of  it,  or  the  raw  inexperience  of  youth 
may  deny  it,  those  who  make  the  fatal  experi- 
ment we  have  done,  will  feel. — You  are  a  states- 
man, and  consequently  are  not  ignorant  of  the 
traffic  of  these  corporation  compliments — The 
little  great  man  who  drives  the  borough  to 
market,  and  the  very  great  man  who  buys  the 
borough  in  that  market,  they  two  do  the  whole 
business ;  and  you  well  know  they,  likewise, 


1  Edward. 


have  their  price.  With  that  sullen  disdain 
which  you  can  so  well  assume,  rise,  illustrious 
Sir,  and  spurn  these  hireling  efforts  of  venal 
stupidity.  At  best  they  are  the  compliments  of 
a  man's  friends  on  the  morning  of  his  execution: 
they  take  a  decent  farewell,  resign  you  to  your 
fate,  and  hurry  away  from  your  approaching 
hour. 

If  fame  say  true,  and  omens  be  not  very  much 
mistaken,  you  are  about  to  make  your  exit  from 
that  world  where  the  sun  of  gladness  gilds  the 
paths  of  prosperous  man :  permit  us,  great  Sir, 
with  the  sympathy  of  fellow-feeling  to  hail  your 
passage  to  the  realms  of  ruin. 

Whether  the  sentiment  proceed  from  the 
selfishness  or  cowardice  of  mankind  is  immate- 
rial ;  but  to  point  out  to  a  child  of  misfortune 
those  who  are  still  more  unhappy,  is  to  give  him 
some  degree  of  positive  enjoyment.  In  this 
light.  Sir,  our  downfall  may  be  again  useful  to 
you : — though  not  exactly  in  the  same  way,  it 
is  not  perhaps  the  first  time  it  has  gratified 
your  feelings.  It  is  true,  the  triumph  of  your 
evil  star  is  exceedingly  despiteful. — At  an  age 
when  others  are  the  votaries  of  pleasure,  or  un- 
derlings in  business,  you  had  attained  the  high 
est  wish  of  a  British  statesman  ;  and  with  the 
ordinary  date  of  human  life,  what  a  prospect 
was  before  you!  Deeply  rooted  in  Royal  favour, 
you  overshadowed  the  land.  The  birds  of  pas- 
sage, which  follow  ministerial  sunshine  through 
every  clime  of  political  faith  and  manners, 
flocked  to  your  branches ;  and  the  beasts  of  the 
field  (the  lordly  possessors  of  hills  and  valleys) 
crowded  under  your  shade.  "But  behold  a 
watcher,  a  holy  one,  came  down  from  heaven, 
and  cried  aloud,  and  said  thus :  Hew  down  the 
tree,  and  cut  off  his  branches;  shake  off  his 
leaves,  and  scatter  his  fruit ;  let  the  beasts  get 
away  from  under  it,  and  the  fowls  from  his 
branches !"  A  blow  from  an  unthought-of  quar- 
ter, one  of  those  terrible  accidents  which  pecu- 
liarly mark  the  hand  of  Omnipotence,  overset 
your  career,  and  laid  all  your  fancied  honours  in 
the  dust.  But  turn  your  eyes.  Sir,  to  the  tragic 
scenes  of  our  fate  : — an  ancient  nation,  that  for 
many  ages  had  gallantly  maintained  the  unequal 
struggle  for  independence  with  her  much  mora 
powerful  neighbour,  at  last  agrees  to  a  union 
which  should  ever  after  make  them  one  people. 
In  consideration  of  certain  circumstances,  it 
was  covenanted  that  the  former  should  enjoy  a 
stipulated  alleviation  in  her  share  of  the  public 


496 


GENERAL   CORKESPONDENCE 


burdens,  particularly  in  that  branch  of  the  re- 
venue called  the  Excise.  This  just  privilege  has 
of  late  given  great  umbrage  to  some  interested, 
powerful  individuals  of  the  more  potent  part  of 
the  empire,  and  they  have  spared  no  wicked 
pains,  under  insidious  pretexts,  to  subvert  what 
they  dared  not  openly  to  attack,  from  the  dread 
which  they  yet  entertained  of  the  spirit  of  their 
ancient  enemies. 

In  this  conspiracy  we  fell ;  nor  did  we  alone 
suffer,  our  country  was  deeply  wounded.  A 
number  of  (we  will  say)  respectable  individuals, 
largely  engaged  in  trade,  where  we  were  not 
only  useful,  but  absolutely  necessary  to  our 
country  in  her  dearest  interests ;  we,  with  all 
that  was  near  and  dear  to  us,  were  sacrificed 
without  remorse,  to  the  infernal  deity  of  politi- 
cal expediency !  We  fell  to  gratify  the  wishes 
of  dark  envy,  and  the  views  of  unprincipled  am- 
bition !  Your  foes.  Sir,  were  avowed;  were  too 
brave  to  take  an  ungenerous  advantage ;  you 
fell  in  the  face  of  day. — On  the  contrary,  our 
enemies,  to  complete  our  overthrow,  contrived 
to  make  their  guilt  appear  the  villany  of  a 
nation.  —  Your  downfall  only  drags  with  you 
your  private  friends  and  partisans  :  in  our  mi- 
sery are  more  or  less  involved  the  most  nume- 
rous and  most  valuable  part  of  the  community 

-all  those  who  immediately  depend  on  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  soil,  from  the  landlord  of  a  pro- 
vince, down  to  his  lowest  hind. 

Allow  us.  Sir,  yet  further,  just  to  hint  at 
another  rich  vein  of  comfort  in  the  dreary 
regions  of  adversity ; — the  gratulations  of  an 
approving  conscience.  In  a  certain  great  assem- 
bly, of  which  you  are  a  distinguished  member, 
panegyrics  on  your  private  virtues  have  so  often 
wounded  your  delicacy,  that  we  shall  not  dis- 
tress you  with  anything  on  the  subject.  There 
is,  however,  one  part  of  your  public  conduct 
which  our  feelings  will  not  permit  us  to  pass  in 
silence :  our  gratitude  must  trespass  on  your 
modestv  ;  we  mean,  worthy  Sir,  your  whole  be- 
haviour to  the  Scots  Distillers. — In  evil  hours, 
when  obtrusive  recollection  presses  bitterly  on 
the  sense,  let  that.  Sir,  come  like  an  healing 
angel,  and  speak  the  peace  to  your  soul  which 
the  world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away. 
We  have  the  honour  to  be. 
Sir, 
Your  sympathizing  fellow-sufFerers, 
And  grateful  humble  servants, 

John  Barleycorn — Praeses. 


CCCXXVII. 

TO  THE   HON.  PROVOST,  BAILIES,  AND 
TOWN  COUNCIL  OF  DUiMFllIES. 

[The  Provost  and  Bailies  complied  at  once  with  the 
modest  request  of  the  poet :  both  Jackson  and  Staig,  who 
were  heads  of  the  town  by  turns,  were  men  of  taste  and 
feeling.] 

Gentlemen, 

The  literary  taste  and  liberal  spirit  of  your 
good  town  has  so  ably  filled  the  various  depart- 
ments of  your  schools,  as  to  make  it  a  very 
great  object  for  a  parent  to  have  his  children 
educated  in  them.  Still,  to  me,  a  stranger, 
with  my  large  family,  and  very  stinted  income, 
to  give  my  young  ones  that  education  I  wish, 
at  the  high  school  fees  which  a  stranger  pays, 
will  bear  hard  upon  me. 

Some  years  ago  your  good  town  did  me  the 
honour  of  making  me  an  honorary  burgess. — 
Will  you  allow  me  to  request  that  this  mark  of 
distinction  may  extend  so  far,  as  to  put  me  on 
a  footing  of  a  real  freeman  of  the  town,  in  the 
schools  ? 

If  you  are  so  very  kind  as  to  grant  my  re- 
quest, it  will  certainly  be  a  constant  incentive 
to  me  to  strain  every  nerve  where  I  can  officially 
serve  you ;  and  will,  if  possible,  increase  that 
grateful  respect  with  which  I  have  the  honour 
to  be. 

Gentlemen, 
Your  devoted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


CCCXXVIII. 

TO   MRS.    RIDDEL. 

[Mrs.  Riddel  was,  like  Burns,  a  well-wisher  to  the 
great  cause  of  human  liberty,  and  lamented  with  him  the 
excesses  of  the  French  Revolution.] 

Dumfries,  2Qth  January,  1796. 

I  CANNOT  express  my  gratitude  to  you,  for 
allowing  me  a  longer  perusal  of  "  Anacharsis." 
In  fact,  I  never  met  with  a  book  that  bewitched 
me  so  much  ;  and  I,  as  a  member  of  the  library, 
must  warmly  feel  the  obligation  you  have  laid 
us  under.  Indeed  to  me  the  obligation  ia 
stronger  than  to  any  other  individual  of  our 
society;  as  '* Anacharsis"  is  an  indispensable 
desideratum  to  a  son  of  the  muses. 

The  health  you  wished  me  in  your  morning's 
card,  is,  I  think,  flown  from  me  for  ever.     I 


OF   ROBEKT    iiUKNS. 


497 


have  not  been  able  to  leave  my  bed  to-day  till 
about  an  hour  ago.  These  wickedly  unlucky 
advertisements  I  lent  (I  did  wrong)  to  a  friend, 
and  I  am  ill  able  to  go  in  quest  of  him. 

The  muses  have  not  quite  forsaken  me.  The 
following  detached  stanza  I  intend  to  interweave 
in  some  disastrous  tale  of  a  shepherd. 

R.  B. 


CCCXXIX. 


TO   MRS.   DUNLOP. 

[It  seems  that  Mrs.  Dunlop  regarded  the  conduct  of 
Burns,  for  some  months,  with  displeasure,  and  withheld 
v>r  delayed  her  usual  kind  and  charming  comraunica- 
tions.] 

Dumfries,  Zlst  January,  1796. 
These  many  months  you  have  been  two 
packets  in  my  debt — what  sin  of  ignorance  I 
have  committed  against  so  highly-valued  a  friend 
I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  guess.  Alas !  Madam, 
ill  can  I  affoi^d,  at  this  time,  to  be  deprived  of 
any  of  the  small  remnant  of  my  pleasures.  I 
have  lately  drunk  deep  in  the  cup  of  affliction. 
The  autumn  robbed  me  of  my  only  daughter 
and  darling  child,  and  that  at  a  distance  too, 
and  so  rapidly,  as  to  put  it  out  of  my  power  to 
pay  the  last  duties  to  her.  I  had  scarcely  be- 
gun to  recover  from  that  shock,  when  I  became 
myself  the  victim  of  a  most  severe  rheumatic 
fever,  and  long  the  die  spun  doubtful;  until, 
after  many  weeks  of  a  sick  bed,  it  seems  to 
have  turned  up  life,  and  I  am  beginning  to  crawl 
across  my  room,  and  once  indeed  have  been  be- 
fore my  own  door  in  the  street. 

"  When  pleasure  fascinates  the  mental  sight, 
Affliction  purifies  the  visual  ray, 
Reli{?ion  hails  the  drear,  the  untried  night, 
And  shuts,  for  ever  shuts !  life's  doubtful  day." 

R.  B. 


cccxxx. 

TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[Cromek  informed  me,  on  the  authority  of  Mrs.  Bums, 
•faat  the  "  handsome,  elegant  present"  mentioned  in  this 
latter,  was  a  common  worsted  shawl.] 

February,  1796. 
Many  thanks,  my  dear  Sir,   for  your  hand- 
lome,  elegant  present  to  Mrs.  Burns,  and  for 

I  Bong  CCLXVI. 


my  remaining  volume  of  P.  Pindar.  Peter  is  a 
delightful  fellow,  and  a  first  favourite  of  mine. 
I  am  much  pleased  with  your  idea  of  publishing 
a  collection  of  our  songs  in  octavo,  with  etchings. 
I  am  extremely  willing  to  lend  every  assietance 
in  my  power.  The  Irish  airs  I  shall  cheerfully 
undertake  the  task  of  finding  verses  for. 

I  have  already,  you  know,  equipt  three  with 
words,  and  the  other  day  I  strung  up  a  kind  of 
rhapsody  to  another  Hibernian  melody,  which 
I  admire  miich. 

Awa'  wi'  your  witchcraft  o'  beauty's  alarms.' 

If  this  will  do,  you  have  now  four  of  my  Irish 
engagement.  In  my  by-past  songs  I  dislike 
one  thing,  the  name  Chloris — I  meant  it  as  the 
fictitious  name  of  a  certain  lady  :  but,  on  second 
thoughts,  it  is  a  high  incongruity  to  have  a 
Greek  appellation  to  a  Scottish  pastoral  ballad. 
Of  this,  and  some  things  else,  in  my  next :  I 
have  more  amendments  to  propose.  What  you 
once  mentioned  of  *'  flaxen  locks"  is  just :  they 
cannot  enter  into  an  elegant  description  of 
beauty.     Of  this  also  again — God  bless  you  !> 

R.  B. 


CCCXXXI. 
TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[It  is  seldom  that  painting  speaks  in  the  spirit  of  poetry 
Burns  perceived  some  of  the  blemishes  of  Allan's  illus- 
trations: but  at  that  time  little  nature  aud  less  elegance 
entered  into  the  embellishments  of  books.] 

April,  1796. 
Alas  !  my  dear  Thomson,  I  fear  it  will  be 
some  time  ere  I  tune  my  lyre  again !  "  By 
Babel  streams  I  have  sat  and  wept"  almost  ever 
since  I  wrote  you  last ;  I  have  only  known  ex- 
istence by  the  pressure  of  the  heavy  hand  of 
sickness,  and  have  counted  time  by  the  reper- 
cussions of  pain  !  Rheumatism,  cold,  and  fever 
have  formed  to  me  a  terrible  combination.  I 
close  my  eyes  in  misery,  and  open  them  withont 
hope.  I  look  on  the  vernal  day,  and  say  with 
poor  Fergusson, 

«  Say,  wherefore  has  an  all-indulgent  heaven 
Light  to  the  comfortless  and  wretched  given  ?" 

This  will  be  delivered  to  you  by  Mrs.  Hyslop, 
landlady  of  the  Globe  Tavern  here,  which  for 
these  many  years  has  been  my  howff,  and  where 


S  Our  poet  never  explained  what  name  he  wooldhara 
■abstituted  for  Chloris.— Ma.  Thomson. 


498 


GENEKAL   COKKESPONDENCE 


our  friend  Clarke  and  I  have  had  many  a  merry 
nqueeze.  I  am  highly  delighted  with  Mr. 
Allan's  etchings.  "Woo'd  an'  married  an'  a'," 
is  admirable!  The  grouping  is  beyond  all 
praise.  The  expression  of  the  figures,  conform- 
able to  the  story  in  the  ballad,  is  absolutely 
faultless  perfection.  I  next  admire  "  Turnim- 
spike."  What  I  like  least  is  "  Jenny  said  to 
Jpck?7.  '  Besides  the  female  being  in  her  ap- 
pearance ^t  *  *  *,  if  you  take  her  stooping  into 
the  account,  she  is  at  least  two  inches  taller 
than  her  lover.  Poor  Cleghorn!  I  sincerely 
sympathize  with  him.  Happy  I  am  to  think 
that  he  yet  has  a  well-grounded  hope  of  health 
and  enjoyment  in  this  world.  As  for  me — but 
that  is  a  sad  subject.  B.  B. 


CCCXXXII. 

TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[The  genius  of  the  poet  triumphed  over  pain  and  want, 
—his  Inst  songs  are  as  tender  and  as  true  as  any  of  his 
early  compositions.] 

Mt  dbar  Sir, 
I  ONCE  mentioned  to  you  an  air  which  I  have 
long  admired — "  Here's  a  health  to  them  that's 
awa,  hiney,"  but  I  forget  if  you  took  any  notice 
of  it.  I  have  just  been  trying  to  suit  it  with 
verses,  and  I  beg  leave  to  recommend  the  air  to 
your  attention  once  more.  I  have  only  begun 
it. 

[Here  follow  the  first  three  stanzas  of  the  song,  be- 
:  ginning, 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  loe  dear ;' 

-idle  fourth  was  found  among  the  poet's  MSS.  after  his 
4leath.] 

R.  B. 


cccxxxni. 

TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

[.  -^i-  Lewars,  whom  the  poet  introduces  to  Thomson, 
«BB  a  j^other  ganger,  and  a  kind,  warm-hearted  gentle- 
■mu)  Jessie  Lewars  was  his  sister,  and  at  this  time  but 
•ianer  teens.] 

This  will  be  delivered  by  Mr.  Lewars,  a 
young  fellow  of  uncommon  merit.  As  he  will 
be  a  day  or  two  in  town,  you  will  have  leisure, 
If  you  choose,  to  write  me  by  him :  and  if  you 

>  Song  CCLXVII. 


have  a  spare  half-hour  to  spend  with  him,  I 
shall  place  your  kindness  to  my  a^  50unt.  I 
have  no  copies  of  the  songs  I  have  sent  you, 
and  I  have  taken  a  fancy  tc  review  them  all, 
and  possibly  may  mend  some  of  them ;  so  when 
you  have  complete  leisure,  I  will  thank  you  for 
either  the  originals  or  copies.^  I  had  rather  be 
the  author  of  five  well-written  songs  than  of  ten 
otherwise.  I  have  great  hopes  that  the  genial 
influence  of  the  approaching  summer  will  set 
me  to  rights,  but  as  yet  I  cannot  boast  of  re- 
turning health.  I  have  now  reason  to  believe 
that  my  complaint  is  a  flying  gout — a  sad  busi- 
ness ! 

Do  let  me  know  how  Cleghorn  is,  and  remem- 
ber me  to  him. 

This  should  have  been  delivered  to  you  a 
month  ago.  I  am  still  very  poorly,  but  should 
like  much  to  hear  from  you. 

R  B. 


CCCXXXIV. 

TO   MRS.   RIDDEL, 

Who  had  desired  him  to^  go  to  the  Birth-Day  As- 
sembly/ on  that  day  to  show  his  loyalty. 

[This  is  the  last  letter  which  the  poet  wrote  to  this 
accomplished  lady.] 

Dumfries,  4th  June,  1796. 

I  AM  in  such  miserable  health  as  to  be  utterly 
incapable  of  showing  my  loyalty  in  any  way. 
Rackt  as  I  am  with  rheumatisms,  I  meet  every 
face  with  a  greeting  like  that  of  Balak  to  Ba- 
laam— "  Come,  curse  me  Jacob  ;  and  come,  defy 
me  Israel !"  So  say  I — Come,  curse  me  that 
east  wind  ;  and  come,  defy  me  the  north !  Would 
you  have  me  in  such  circumstances  copy  you 
out  a  love-song  ? 

I  may  perhaps  see  you  on  Saturday,  but  I 
will  not  be  at  the  ball. — Why  should  I?  "man 
delights  not  me,  nor  woman  either  !"  Can  yon 
supply  me  with  the  song,  «  Let  us  all  be  un- 
happy together  ?" — do  if  you  can,  and  oblige, 
le  pauvre  miserable  R.  B. 


2  "  It  is  needless  to  say  that  this  revisal  Burns  did  not 
live  to  perform." — Currie. 


Oi^^    ItOiiKltl     BUKNS. 


499 


cccxxxv. 
TO   MR.  CLARKE, 

SCHOOLMASTER,     FORFAR. 

[Wlio  will  say,  after  reading  the  following  distressing 
letter;  lately  conae  to  light,  that  Burns  did  not  die  in 
great  pcvo.  iy  ] 

Dumfries,  2Qth  June,  1796. 
My  dear  Clarke, 

Still,  still  the  victim  of  affliction !  Were  you 
t3  see  the  emaciated  figure  who  now  holds  the 
pen  to  you,  you  would  not  know  your  old  friend. 
Whether  I  shall  ever  get  about  again,  is  only 
known  to  Him,  the  Great  Unknown,  whose  crea- 
ture I  am.  Alas,  Clarke !  I  begin  to  fear  the 
worst. 

As  to  my  individual  self,  I  am  tranquil,  and 
would  despise  myself,  if  I  were  not ;  but  Burns's 
poor  widow,  and  half-a-dozen  of  his  dear  little 
ones — helpless  orphans ! — there  I  am  weak  as  a 
woman's  tear.  Enough  of  this !  'Tis  half  of  my 
disease. 

I  duly  received  your  last,  enclosing  the  note. 
It  came  extremely  in  time,  and  I  am  much 
obliged  by  your  punctuality.  Again  I  must 
request  you  to  do  me  the  same  kindness.  Be 
80  very  good,  as,  by  return  of  post,  to  enclose 
me  another  note.  I  trust  you  can  do  it  without 
inconvenience,  and  it  will  seriously  oblige  me. 
If  I  must  go,  I  shall  leave  a  few  friends  behind 
me,  whom  I  shall  regret  while  consciousness 
remains.  I  know  I  shall  live  in  their  remem- 
brance. Adieu,  dear  Clarke.  That  I  shall  ever 
see  you  again,  is,  I  am  afraid,  highly  improba- 
ble. R.  B. 


CCCXXXVI. 


TO  MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON, 

EDINBURGH, 

["  It  this  humble  and  delicate  manner  did  poor  Bums 
ask  for  a  copy  of  a  work  of  which  he  was  principally  the 
founder,  and  to  which  he  had  contributed  gratuitously 
no-  less  than  one  hundred  and  eighty-four  original, 
alt^-ed,  and  collected  songs!  The  editor  has  seen  one 
hundred  and  eighty  transcribed  by  his  own  hand,  for  the 
'Museum.'"— CROMEr.  Will  it  be  believed  that  this 
'humble  request"  of  Burns  was  not  complied  with! 
The  work  was  intended  as  a  present  to  Jessie  Lewars.] 

Dumfries,  4th  July,  1796. 

How  are  you,  my  dear  friend,  and  how  comes 

on  your  fifth  volume  ?   You  may  probably  think 

that  for  some  time  past  I  have  neglected  you 

%nd  your  work ;  but,  alas !  the  hand  of  pain,  and 


sorrow,  and  care,  has  these  many  months  lain 
heavy  on  me!  Personal  and  domestic  affliction 
have  almost  entirely  banished  that  alacrity  and 
life  with  which  I  used  to  woo  the  rural  muse  of 
Scotia.  In  the  meantime  let  us  finish  what  we 
have  so  well  begun. 

*  *  *  * 

You  are  a  good,  worthy,  honest  fellow,  and 
have  a  good  right  to  live  in  this  world — because 
you  deserve  it.  Many  a  merry  meeting  this 
publication  has  given  us,  and  possibly  it  may 
give  us  more,  though,  alas  !  I  fear  it.  This  pro- 
tracting, slow,  consuming  illness  which  hangs 
over  me,  will,  I  doubt  much,  my  ever  dear 
friend,  arrest  my  sun  before  he  has  well  reached 
his  middle  career,  and  will  turn  over  the  poet 
to  other  and  far  more  important  concerns  than 
studying  the  brilliancy  of  wit,  or  the  pathos  of 
sentiment !  However,  hope  is  the  cordial  of  the 
human  heart,  and  I  endeavour  to  cherish  it  aa 
well  as  I  can. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  as  soon  as  convenient. 
— Your  work  is  a  great  one  ;  and  now  that  it  is 
finished,  I  see,  if  we  were  to  begin  again,  two 
or  three  things  that  might  be  mended ;  yet  I 
will  venture  to  prophesy,  that  to  future  ages 
your  publication  will  be  the  text-book  and 
standard  of  Scottish  song  and  music. 

I  am  ashamed  to  ask  another  favour  of  you, 
because  you  have  been  so  very  good  already ; 
but  my  wife  has  a  very  particular  friend  of  hers, 
a  young  lady  who  sings  well,  to  whom  she 
wishes  to  present  the  "  Scots  Musical  Museum." 
If  you  have  a  spare  copy,  will  you  be  so  oblig- 
ing as  to  send  it  by  the  very  first  fly,  as  I  am 
anxious  to  have  it  soon. 

The  gentleman,  Mr.  Lewars,  a  particulai 
friend  of  mine,  will  bring  out  any  proofs  (if 
they  are  ready)  or  any  message  you  may  have. 
I  am  extremely  anxious  for  your  work,  as  in- 
deed I  am  for  everything  concerning  you,  and 
your  welfare. 

Farewell,  R.  B. 

P.  S.  You  should  have  had  this  when  Mr. 
Lewars  called  on  you,  but  his  saddle-bags  mis- 
carried. 


CCOXXXVII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

[Few  of  the  last  requests  of  the  poet  were  effectual : 
Clarke,  it  is  believed,  did  not  send  the  second  nou  ha 
wrote  for :  Johnaon  did  not  send  the  copy  of  the  Musean 


^00 


GENERAL   OOKRESPONDENCE 


«rhich  he  requested,  and  the  Commissioners  of  Excise 
Tefused  the  continuance  of  his  full  salary.] 

Brow,  Sea-bathing  qtiarters,  1th  July,  1796. 
My  dbae  Cunningham, 
I  EBCEiVED  yours  here  this  moment,  and  am 
indeed  highly  flattered  with  the  approbation  of 
the   literary   circle   you   mention;    a   literary 
circle  inferior   to  none  in   the  two  kingdoms. 
Alas !  my  friend,  I  fear  the  voice  of  the  bard 
will  soon  be  heard  among  you  no  more !     For 
these  eight  or  ten  months  I  have  been  ailing, 
sometimes  bedfast  and  sometimes  not ;  but  these 
last  three  months  I  have  been  tortured  with  an 
excruciating  rheumatism,   which   has  reduced 
me  to  nearly  the  last  stage.    You  actually  would 
not  know  me  if  you  saw  me — Pale,  emaciated, 
and  so  feeble,  as  occasionally  to  need  help  from 
my  chair — my  spirits  fled !  fled !  but  I  can  no 
more  on  the  subject — only  the  medical  folks  tell 
me  that  my  last  only  chance  is  bathing  and 
country-quarters,  and  riding. — The  deuce  of  the 
matter  is  this ;  when  an  exciseman  is  off  duty, 
his  salary  is  reduced  to  Zbl.  instead  of  60Z. — 
What  way,  in  the  name  of  thrift,  shall  I  main- 
tain myself,  and  keep  a  horse  in  country  quar- 
ters—with a  wife  and  five  children  at  home,  on 
Zbl.  ?  I  mention  this,  because  I  had  intended  to 
beg  your  utmost  interest,  and  that  of  all  the 
friends  you  can  muster,  to  move  our  commis- 
sioners of  excise  to  grant  me  the  full  salary ;  I 
dare  say  you  know  them  all  personally.    If  they 
do  not  grant  it  me,  I  must  lay  my  account  with 
an  exit  truly  en  poete — if  I  die  not  of  disease, 
I  must  perish  with  hunger. 

I  have  sent  you  one  of  the  songs  ;  the  other 
my  memory  does  not  serve  me  with,  and  I  have 
no  copy  here ;  but  I  shall  be  at  home  soon,  when 
I  will  send  it  you. — Apropos  to  being  at  home, 
Mrs.  Burns  threatens,  in  a  week  or  two,  to  add 
one  more  to  my  paternal  charge,  which,  if  of 
the  right  gender,  I  intend  shall  be  introduced 
to  the  world  by  the  respectable  designation  of 
Alexander  Cunningham  Burns.  My  last  was 
Tames  Glencairn,  so  you  can  have  no  objection 
to  the  company  of  nobility.     Farewell. 

R.  B. 


cccxxxvm. 

TO  MR.   GILBERT  BURNS. 

[This  letter  contained  heavy  news  for  Gilbert  Bums  : 
the  loss  of  a  brother  whom  he  dearly  loved  and  admired, 
was  not  all,  though  the  worst.] 


10th  July,  1796. 
Deak  Brother, 
It  will  be  no  very  pleasing  news  to  you  to  bi 
told  that  I  am  dangerously  ill,  and  not  likely  to 
get  better.  An  inveterate  rheumatism  has  re 
duced  me  to  such  a  state  of  debility,  and  mj 
appetite  is  so  totally  gone,  that  I  can  scarcely 
stand  on  my  legs.  I  have  been  a  week  at  sea- 
bathing, and  I  will  continue  there,  or  in  a 
friend's  house  in  the  country,  all  the  summer. 
God  keep  my  wife  and  children  :  if  I  am  taken 
from  their  head,  they  will  be  poor  indeed.  I 
have  contracted  one  or  two  serious  debts,  partly 
from  my  illness  these  many  months,  partly  from 
too  much  thoughtlessness  as  to  expense,  when 
I  came  to  town,  that  will  cut  in  too  much  on  the 
little  I  leave  them  in  your  hands.  Remember 
me  to  my  mother. 

Yours,  R.  B 


CCCXXXIX. 


TO   MR.   JAMES   ARMOUR, 

MASON,    MAUCHLINE. 

[The  original  letter  is  now  in  a  safe  sanctuary,  the 
hands  of  the  poet's  son,  Major  James  Glencairn  Burns.] 

July  10th  [1796.] 
For  Heaven's  sake,  and   as  you  value  the 
we[l]fare  of  your  daughter  and  my  wife,  o 
my  dearest  Sir,  write  to  Fife,  to  Mrs.  Arm< 
to  come  if  possible.     My  wife  thinks  she  can 
yet  reckon  upon  a  fortnight.  The  medical  people 
order  me,  as  lvalue  my  existence,  to  fly  to  £( 
bathing  and  country-quarters,  so  it  is  ten  tli' 
sand  chances  to  one  that  I  shall  not  be  with 
a  dozen   miles  of  her  when  her  hour  com 
What  a  situation  for  her,  poor  girl,  without 
single  friend  by  her  on  such  a  serious  mome;. 

I  have  now  been  a  week  at  salt-water,  ai)  I 
though  I  think  I  have  got  some  good  by  it,  y 
I  have  some  secret  fears  that  this  business  ^. 
be  dangerous  if  not  fatal. 

Your  most  affectionate  son, 
R.  B. 


CCCXL. 

TO  MRS.    BURNS. 

[Sea-bathing,  I  have  heard  skilful  men  say,  was  inju- 
dicious :  but  it  was  felt  that  Burns  was  on  his  way  to  th« 


OF   ROBERT   BURNS. 


50i 


f  rave,  and  as  he  desired  to  try  the  influence  o'  sea-water, 
»8  well  as  aaa-dir,  his  wishes  were  not  opposed.] 

Brow,  Thursday. 
My  dearest  Love, 

I  DELAYED  Writing  until  I  could  tell  you  what 
eflFect  sea-bathing  was  likely  to  produce.  It 
would  be  injustice  to  deny  that  it  has  eased  my 
pains,  and  I  think  has  strengthened  me  ;  but 
my  appetite  is  still  extremely  bad.  No  flesh 
nor  fish  can  I  swallow :  porridge  and  milk  are 
the  only  things  I  can  taste.  I  am  very  happy 
to  hear,  by  Miss  Jess  Lewars,  that  you  are  all 
well.  My  very  best  and  kindest  compliments 
to  her,  and  to  all  the  children.  I  will  see  you 
on  Sunday. 

Your  affectionate  husband, 

R.  B. 


CCCXLI. 
TO  MRS.    DUNLOP. 

["  The  poet  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  a  satisfac- 
tory explanation  of  this  lady's  silence,"  says  Currie, 
"  and  an  assurance  of  the  continuance  of  her  friendship 
to  his  widow  and  children."] 

Brow,  Saturday,  \2th  July,  1796. 
Madam, 
I  HAVE  written  you  so  often,  without  receiv- 
ing any  answer,  that  I  would  not  trouble  you 
again,  but  for  the  circumstances  in  which  I  am. 
An  illness  which  has  long  hung  about  me,  in  all 
probability  will  speedily  send  me  beyond  that 
bourn  whence  no  traveller  returns.  Your  friend- 
ship, with  which  for  many  years  you  honoured 
me,  was  a  friendship,  dearest  to  my  soul.  Your 
conversation,  and  especially  your  correspon- 
dence, were  at  once  highly  entertaining  and  in- 
structive. With  what  pleasure  did  I  use  to 
break  up  the  seal !  The  remembrance  yet  adds 
one  pulse  more  to  my  poor  palpitating  heart. 
Farewell  !  !  ! 

R.  B. 


cccxLir. 

TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

[Thomson  instantly  complied  with  the  dying  poet's 
request,  and  trnnsmitted  the  exact  sum  which  he  re- 
quested, viz.  five  pounds,  by  return  of  post:  he  was 
afraid  of  offending  the  pride  of  Burns,  otherwise  he 
would,  he  says,  have  sent  a  larger  sum.  He  has  not, 
*ow«ver,  tild  us  how  much  »ie  sent  to  the  all  but  deso- 


late widow  and  children,  when  death  had  released  huo 
from  all  dread  of  the  poet's  indignation.] 

Brow,  on  the  Solway-firth,  \2th  July,  1796. 
After  all  my  boasted  independence,  curst 
necessity  compels  me  to  implore  you  for  five 
pounds.  A  cruel  wretch  of  a  haberdasher,  to 
whom  I  owe  an  account,  taking  it  into  his  head 
that  I  am  dying,  has  commenced  a  process, 
and  will  infallibly  put  me  into  jail.  Dc,  for 
God's  sake,  send  me  that  sum,  and  that  by  re- 
turn of  post.  Forgive  me  this  earnestness,  but 
the  horrors  of  a  jail  have  made  me  half  dis- 
tracted. I  do  not  ask  all  this  gratuitously ; 
for,  upon  returning  health,  I  hereby  promise 
and  engage  to  furnish  you  with  five  pounds' 
worth  of  the  neatest  song-genius  you  have  seen. 
I  tried  my  hand  on  "  Rothemurche"  this  morn 
ing.  The  measure  is  so  difficult  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  infuse  much  genius  into  the  lines ; 
they  are  on  the  other  side.  Forgive,  forgive 
me! 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon's  banks.* 

E.  B. 


CCCXLIII. 


TO   MR.   JAMES   BURNESS, 

WRITER,  MONTROSE. 

[The  good,  the  warm-hearted  James  Burness  sent  his 
cousin  ten  pounds  on  the  29th  of  July — he  sent  five  pounds 
afterwards  to  the  family,  and  offered  to  take  one  of  the 
boys,  and  educate  him  in  his  own  profession  of  a  writer 
Ail  this  was  unknown  to  the  world  till  lately.] 

Brow,  \2th  July, 
My  dear  Cousin, 
When  you  off"ered  me  money  assistance,  little 
did  I  think  I  should  want  it  so  soon.  A  rascal 
of  a  haberdasher,  to  whom  I  owe  a  considerable 
bill,  taking  it  into  his  head  that  I  am  dying,  has 
commenced  process  against  me,  and  will  infalli- 
bly put  my  emaciated  body  into  jail.  "Will  you 
be  so  good  as  to  accommodate  me,  and  that  by 
return  of  post,  with  ten  pounds  ?  0  James!  did 
you  know  the  pride  of  my  heart,  you  would  f«el 
doubly  for  me  !  Alas !  I  am  not  usei  tc  beg  1 
The  worst  of  it  is,  my  health  was  coming  about 
finely;  you  know,  and  my  physician  assured  me, 
that  melancholy  and  low  spirits  are  half  my  dis- 
ease; guess  then  my  horrors  since  this  business 
began.  If  I  had  it  settled,  I  would  be,  I  think, 
quite  well  in  a  manner.     How  shall  I  use  th« 

J  Son«  CCLXVIII 


502 


REMARKS    ON    SCOTTISH    SONG. 


language  to  you,  0  do  not  disappoint  me !  but 
Btrong  necessity's  curst  command. 

I  have  been  thinking  over  and  over  my  bro- 
ther's affairs,  and  I  fear  I  must  cut  him  up  ;  but 
on  this  I  will  correspond  at  another  time,  par- 
ticularly as  I  shall  [require]  your  advice. 

Forgive  me  for  once  more  mentioning  by 
return  of  post ; — save  me  from  the  horrors  of  a 
jail! 

My  compliments  to  my  friend  James,  and  to 
all  the  rest.  I  do  not  know  what  I  have  writ- 
ten. The  subject  is  so  horrible  I  dare  not  look 
it  over  again. 

Farewell. 

R.  B. 


CCCXLIV. 

TO   JAMES   GRACIE,  ESQ. 

f  James  Gracie  was,  for  some  time,  a  banker  in  Dum 
fries:  his  eldest  son,  a  fine,  high-spirited  youth,  fell  bj 
a  rifle-ball  in  America,  w^hen  leading  the  troops  to  th« 
attack  on  Washington.] 

Brow,  Wednesday  Morning,  16th  July,  1796. 

My  dear  Sir, 
It  would  [be]  doing  high  injustice  to  this 
place  not  to  acknowledge  that  my  rheumatisms 
have  derived  great  benefits  from  it  already; 
but  alas !  my  loss  of  appetite  still  continues.  I 
shall  not  need  your  kind  oflFer  this  week,  and  I 
return  to  town  the  beginning  of  next  week,  it 
not  being  a  tide-week.  I  am  detaining  a  man 
in  a  burning  hurry. 

So  God  bless  you.  R.  B. 


EEMAEKS 


ON 


SCOTTISH  SONGS  AND  BALLADS, 


[The  following  Strictures  on  Scottish  Song  exist  in  the  handwriting  of  Burns,  in  the  interleaved  copy  of  Johnson's 
Musical  Museum,  which  the  poet  presented  to  Captain  Riddel,  of  Friar's  Carse  ;  on  the  death  of  Mrs.  Riddel,  these 
precious  volumes  passed  into  the  hands  of  her  niece,  Eliza  Bayley,  of  Manchester,  who  kindly  permitted  Mr.  Croraek 
to  transcribe  and  publish  them  in  the  Reliques.] 


THE  HIGHLAND  QUEEN. 
This  Highland  Queen,  music  and  poetry,  was 
composed  by  Mr.  M'Vicar,  pui-ser  of  the  Sole- 
bay  man-of-war. — This  I  had  from  Dr.  Black- 
lock. 


BESS  THE  GAWKIE. 
This  song  shows  that  the  Scottish  muses  did 
not  all  leave  us  when  we  lost  Ramsay  and  Os- 
wald, as  I  have  good  reason  to  believe  that  the 
verses  and  music  are  both  posterior  to  the  days 
of  these  two  gentlemen.  It  is  a  beautiful  song, 
and  in  the  genuine  Scots  taste.  We  have  few 
pastoral  compositions,  I  mean  the  pastoral  of 
nature,  that  are  equal  to  thia. 


OH,  OPEN  THE  DOOR,  LORD  GREGORY. 
It  is  somewhat  singular,  that  in  Lanark,  Ren- 
frew, Ayr,  Wigton,  Kirkcudbright,  and  Dum- 
fries-shires, there  is  scarcely  an  old  song  or 
tune  which,  from  the  title,  &c.,  can  be  guessed 
to  belong  to,  or  be  the  production  of  these 
countries.  This,  I  conjecture,  is  one  of  these 
very  few;  as  the  ballad,  which  is  a  long  one, 
is  called,  both  by  tradition  and  in  printed  col- 
lections, "  The  Lass  of  Lochroyan,"  which  I 
take  to  be  Lochroyan,  in  Galloway. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  TWEED. 

This  song  is  one  of  the  many  attempts  that 

English  composers  have  made  to  imitate  the 

Scottish  manner,  and  which  I  shall,  in  thes« 

'  strictures,  beg  leave  to  distinguish  by  the  ap- 


REMARKS  ON   SCOTTISH   SONG. 


50d 


pellation  of  Anglo-Scottisb.  productions.  The 
music  is  pretty  good,  but  the  verses  are  just 
above  contempt. 


THE  BEDS  OF  SWEET  ROSES. 
THJd  song;  as  far  as  I  know,  for  the  first  time 
appears  here  in  print. — Whgn  I  was  a  boy,  it 
was  a  very  popular  song  in  Ayrshire.  I  re- 
member to  have  heard  those  fanatics,  the  Bu- 
chanites,  sing  some  of  their  nonsensical  rhymes, 
which  they  dignify  with  the  name  of  hymns,  to 
this  air. 


ROSLIN  CASTLE. 
These  beautiful  verses  were  the  production 
of  a  Richard  Hewit,  a  young  man  that  Dr. 
Blacklock,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  anec- 
dote, kept  for  some  years  as  an  amanuensis.  I 
do  not  know  who  is  the  author  of  the  second 
Bong  to  the  tune.  Tytler,  in  his  amusing  his- 
tory of  Scots  music,  gives  the  air  to  Oswald ; 
but  in  Oswald's  own  collection  of  Scots  tunes, 
where  he  affixes  an  asterisk  to  those  he  himself 
composed,  he  does  not  make  the  least  claim  to 
the  tune. 


SAW  YE  JOHNNIE  CUMMIN  ?  QUO'  SHE. 
This  song,  for  genuine  humour  in  tbe  verses, 
and  lively  originality  in  the  air,  is  unparalleled. 
I  take  it  to  be  very  old. 


CLOUT  THE  CALDRON. 
A  TEADiTiON  is  mentioned  in  the  "  Bee,"  that 
the  second  Bishop  Chisholm,  of  Dunblane,  used 
to  say,  that  if  he  were  going  to  be  hanged, 
nothing  would  soothe  his  mind  so  much  by  the 
way  as  to  hear  «'  Clout  the  Caldron"  played. 

I  have  met  with  another  tradition,  that  the 
oli  %ong  to  iiXB  tune, 

<<  Hae  ye  unie  pots  or  pins. 
Or  onie  broken  chanlers," 

was  composed  on  one  of  the  Kenmure  family,  in 
the  cavalier  times  ;  and  alluded  to  an  amour  he 
had,  while  under  hiding,  in  the  disguise  of  an 
itinerant  tinker.  The  air  is  also  known  by  the 
name  of 

«  The  blacksmith  and  his  apron," 

which  from  the  rhythm,  seems  to  have  been  a 
line  of  some  old  song  to  the  tune. 


SAW  YE  MY  PEGGY. 

This  charming  song  is  much  older,  and  in 
deed  superior  to  Ramsay's  verses,  *'  The  Toast," 
as  he  calls  them.  There  is  another  set  of  the 
words,  much  older  still,  and  which  I  take  to  be 
the  original  one,  but  though  it  has  a  very  great 
deal  of  merit,  it  is  not  quite  ladies'  reading. 

The  original  words,  for  they  can  scarcely  be 
called  verses,  seem  to  be  as  follows ;  a  song  fa- 
miliar from  the  cradle  to  every  Scottish  ear. 
'*  Saw  ye  my  Maggie, 
Saw  ye  my  Maggie, 
Saw  ye  my  Maggie 
Linkin  o'er  the  lea  ? 

High  kilted  was  she, 
High  kilted  was  she, 
High  kilted  was  she, 

Her  coat  aboon  her  knee 

What  mark  has  your  Maggie, 
What  mark  has  your  Maggie, 
What  mark  has  your  Maggie, 

That  ane  may  ken  her  be  ?" 

Though  it  by  no  means  follows  that  the  silliest 
verses  to  an  air  must,  for  that  reason,  be  the 
original  song ;  yet  I  take  this  ballad,  of  which 
I  have  quoted  part,  to  be  old  verses.  The  two 
songs  in  Ramsay,  one  of  them  evidently  his  own, 
are  never  to  be  met  with  in  the  fire-side  circle 
of  our  peasantry ;  while  that  which  I  take  to 
be  the  old  song,  is  in  every  shepherd's  mouth. 
Ramsay,  I  suppose,  had  thought  the  old  verses 
unworthy  of  a  place  in  his  collection. 


THE  FLOWERS  OP  EDINBURGH. 

This  song  is  one  of  the  many  effusions  of 
Scots  Jacobitism. — The  title  "  Flowers  of  £din> 
burgh,"  has  no  manner  of  connexion  with  the 
present  verses,  so  I  suspect  there  has  been  an 
older  set  of  words,  of  which  the  title  is  all  that 
remains. 

By  the  bye,  it  is  singular  enough  that  the 
Scottish  muses  were  all  Jacobites. — I  have  paid 
more  attention  to  every  description  of  Scota 
songs  than  perhaps  anybody  living  has  done, 
and  I  do  not  recollect  one  single  stanza,  or  even 
the  title  of  the  most  trifling  Scots  air,  which  has 
the  least  panegyrical  reference  to  the  families 
of  Nassau  or  Brunswick ;  while  there  are  hun- 
dreds satirizing  them. — This  maybe  thought  no 
panegyric  on  the  Scots  Poets,  but  I  mean  it  aa 
such.  For  myself,  I  would  always  take  it  as  a 
compliment  to  have  it  said,  that  my  heart  ran 
before  my  head, — and  surely  the  gallant  though 


604 


KEMAKKS   ON    SCOTTISH    SONG. 


nnfortunate  house  of  Stewart,  the  kings  of  our 
fathers  for  so  many  heroic  ages,  is  a  theme  * 
»  *  *  *  * 


JAMIE  GAY. 
Jamie  Gay  is  another  and  a  tolerable  Anglo- 
Scottish  piece. 


MY  DEAR  JOCKIE. 
Another  Anglo-Scottish  production. 


FYE,  GAE  RUB  HER  0»ER  WI'  8TRAE. 
It  is  self-evident  that  the  first  four  lines  of 
this  song  are  part  of  a  song  more  ancient  than 
Kamsay's  beautiful  verses  which  are  annexed 
to  them.  As  music  is  the  language  of  nature  ; 
and  poetry,  particularly  songs,  are  always  less 
or  more  localized  (if  I  may  be  allowed  the  verb) 
by  some  of  the  modifications  of  time  and  place, 
this  is  the  reason  why  so  many  of  our  Scots 
airs  have  outlived  their  original,  and  perhaps 
many  subsequent  sets  of  verses ;  except  a  single 
name  or  phrase,  or  sometimes  one  or  two  lines, 
simply  to  distinguish  the  tunes  by. 

To  this  day  among  people  who  know  nothing 
of  Ramsay's  verses,  the  following  is  the  song, 
and  all  the  song  that  ever  I  heard : 
"  Gin  ye  meet  a  bonnie  lassie, 

Gie  her  a  kiss  and  let  her  gae  ; 
But  gin  ye  meet  a  dirty  hizzie, 

Fye,  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae. 
Fye,  gae  rub  her,  rub  her,  rub  her, 
Fye,  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae  : 
An'  gin  ye  meet  a  dirty  hizzie, 
Fye,  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae." 


THE  LASS  0'  LIVISTON. 
The  old  song,  in  three  eight-line  stanzas,  is 
well   known,    and   has    merit    as   to   wit   and 
humour ;  but  it  is  rather  unfit  for  insertion.— 
It  begins, 

"  The  Bonnie  lass  o>  Liviston, 

Her  name  ye  ken,  her  name  ye  ken, 
And  she  has  written  in  her  contract 
To  lie  her  lane,  to  lie  her  lane." 
&c.  &c. 


THE  LAST  TIME  I  CAME  O'ER  THE  MOOR. 
Ramsay  found  the  first  line  of  this  song,  which 
h^d  been  preserved  as  the  title  of  the  charming 


air,  and  then  composed  the  rest  of  the  verses  to 
suit  that  line.  This  has  always  a  finer  efi"ect 
than  composing  English  words,  or  words  with  an 
idea  foreign  to  the  spirit  of  the  old  title.  Where 
old  titles  of  songs  convey  any  idea  at  all,  it  will 
generally  be  found  to  be  quite  in  the  spirit  of 
the  air. 


JOCKIE 'S  GRAY  BREEKS. 
Though  this  has  certainly  every  evidence  ol 
being  a  Scottish  air,  yet  there  is  a  well-known 
tune  and  song  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  called 
♦'  The  Weaver  and  his  Shuttle  0,"  which,  though 
sung  much  quicker,  is  every  note  the  very  tune. 


THE  HAPPY  MARRIAGE. 

Another,   but    very    pretty  Anglo-Scottistt 
piece. 


THE  LASS  OP  PATIE'S  MILL. 
In  Sinclair's  Statistical  Account  of  Scotland, 
this  song  is  localized  (a  verb  I  must  use  for 
want  of  another  to  express  my  idea)  somewhere 
in  the  north  of  Scotland,  and  likewise  is  claimed 
by  Ayrshire.  —  The  following  anecdote  I  had 
from  the  present  Sir  William  Cunningham,  of 
Robertland,  who  had  it  from  the  last  John,  Earl 
of  Loudon.  The  then  Earl  of  Loudon,  and  father 
to  Earl  John  before  mentioned,  had  Ramsay  at 
Loudon,  and  one  day  walking  together  by  the 
banks  of  Irvine  water,  near  New-Mills,  at  a 
place  called  Patie's  Mill,  they  were  struck  with 
the  appearance  of  a  beautiful  country  girl.  His 
lordship  observed  that  she  would  be  a  fine  theme 
for  a  song. — Allan  lagged  behind  in  returning 
to  Loudon  Castle,  and  at  dinner  produced  this 
identical  song. 


THE  TURNIMSPIKE. 
There  is  a  stanza  of  this  excellent  song  for 
local  humour,  omitted  in  this  set. — Where  I 
have  placed  the  asterisms. 

"  They  tak  the  horse  then  by  te  head, 
And  tere  tey  mak  her  stan',  man; 
Me  tell  tern,  me  hae  seen  te  day, 
Tey  no  had  sic  comman',  man." 


HIGHLAND  LADDIE. 

As  this  was  a  favourite  theme  with  our  later 
Scottish  muses,  there  are  several  airs  and  songa 


REMARKS    ON   SCOTTISH    SONG. 


505 


of  that  name.  That  which  I  take  to  be  the  old- 
est, is  to  be  found  in  the  "Musical  Museum," 
beginning,  *♦  I  hae  been  at  Crookie-den."  One 
reason  for  my  thinking  so  is,  that  Oswald  has 
it  in  his  collection,  by  the  name  of  "  The  Auld 
Highland  Laddie."  It  is  also  known  by  the 
name  of  "Jinglan  Johnie,"  which  is  a  well- 
known  song  of  four  or  five  stanzas,  and  seems 
to  be  an  earlier  song  than  Jacobite  times.  As 
a  proof  of  this,  it  is  little  known  to  the  pea- 
santry by  the  name  of  "  Highland  Laddie ;" 
while  everybody  knows  "  Jinglan  Johnie."  The 
song  begins 

**  Jinglan  John,  the  meickle  man, 

He  met  wi'  a  lass  was  blythe  and  borne." 

Another  "  Highland  Laddie"  is  also  in  the 
*' Museum,"  vol.  v.,  which  I  take  to  be  Ram- 
say's original,  as  he  has  borrowed  the  chorus — 
"  0  my  bouie  Highland  lad,"  &c.  It  consists 
of  three  stanzas,  besides  the  chorus ;  and  has 
humour  in  its  composition — it  is  an  excellent, 
but  somewhat  licentious  song. — It  begins 

"As  I  cam  o'er  Cairney  mount, 
And  dovira  among  the  blooming  heather." 

This  air,  and  the  common  "  Highland  Laddie," 
seem  only  to  be  different  sets. 

Another  "  Highland  Laddie,"  also  in  the 
**  Museum,"  vol.  v.,  is  the  tune  of  several  Jaco- 
bite fragments.  One  of  these  old  songs  to  it, 
only  exists,  as  far  as  I  know,  in  these  four 
lines — 

"  Where  hae  ye  been  a'  day, 

Bonie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ? 
Down  the  back  o'  Bell's  brae, 
Courtin  Maggie,  courtin  Maggie." 

Another  of  this  name  is  Dr.  Arne's  beautiful 
air,  called  the  new  "  Highland  Laddie." 


THE  GENTLE  SWAIN. 
To  sing  such  a  beautiful  air  to  such  exe- 
crable verses,  is  downright  prostitution  of  com- 
mon sense !    The  Scots  verses  indeed  are  tole- 
rable. 


HE  STOLE  MY  TENDER  HEART  AWAY. 
This  is  an  Anglo-Scottish  production,  but  by 
bo  means  a  baj  one. 


FAIREST  OF  THE  FAIR. 
It  is  too  barefaced  to  take  Dr.  Percy's  charm- 
ing song,  and  by  means  of  transposing  a  few 
English  words  into  Scots,  to  offer  to  pass  it  for 
a  Scots  song, — I  was  not  acquainted  with  the 
editor  until  the  first  volume  was  nearly  finished, 
else,  had  I  known  in  time,  I  would  have  pr» 
vented  such  an  impudent  absurdity. 


THE  BLAITHRIE  O'T. 
The  following  is  a  set  of  this  song,  which  was 
the  earliest  song  I  remember  to  have  got  by 
heart.  When  a  child,  an  old  woman  sung  it  to 
me,  and  I  picked  it  up,  every  word,  at  first 
hearing. 

"  O  Willy,  weel  I  mind,  I  lent  you  my  hand 
To  sing  you  a  song  which  you  did  me  command  ; 
But  my  memory's  so  bad  I  had  almost  forgot 
That  you  called  it  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't.  • 

I'll  not  sing  about  confusion,  delusion  or  pride, 
I'll  sing  about  a  laddie  was  for  a  virtuous  bride, 
For  virtue  is  an  ornament  that  time  will  never  rot. 
And  preferable  to  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. — 

Tho'  my  lassie  hae  nae  scarlets  or  silks  to  put  on, 
We  envy  not  the  greatest  that  sits  upon  the  throne  j 
I  wad  rather  hae  my  lassie,  tho'  she  cam  in  her  smock. 
Than  a  princess  wi'  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't.— 

Tho'  we  hae  nae  horses  or  menzies  at  command. 
We  will  toil  on  our  foot,  and  we'll  work  wi'  our  hand; 
And  when  wearied  without  rest,  we'll  find  it  sweet  in 

any  spot,  * 

And  we'll  value  not  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. — 

If  we  hae  ony  babies,  we'll  count  them  as  lent ; 
Hae  we  less,  hae  we  mair,  we  will  ay  be  contisnt ; 
For  they  say  they  hae  mair  pleasure  that  wins  bu 

groat, 
Than  the  miser  wi'  his  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. — 

I'll  not  meddle  wi'  th'  affairs  of  the  kirk  or  the  queen 
They're  nae  matters  for  a  sang,  let  them  sink,  let  thena 

Bwim; 
On  your  kirk  I'll  ne'er  encroach,  but  I'll  hold  it  Btil 

remote, 
Sae  tak  this  for  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't." 


MAY  EVE,  OR  KATE  OP  ABERDEEN. 
"Katb  of  Aberdeen"  is,  I  believe,  the  work 
of  poor  Cunningham  the  player;  of  whom  the 
following  anecdote,  though  told  before,  deserves 
a  recital.  A  fat  dignitary  of  the  church  com- 
ing past  Cunningham  one  Sunday,  as  the  poor 
poet  was  busy  plying  a  fishing-rod  in  some 
stream  near  Durham,  his  native  country,  his 
reverence  reprimanded  Cunningham  very  se 


506 


REMAllKS   ON 


ONG 


verely  for  such  an  occupation  on  sucli  a  day. 
The  poor  poet,  with  that  inoffensive  gentleness 
of  manners  which  was  his  peculiar  characteristic, 
replied,  that  he  hoped  God  and  his  reverence 
would  forgive  his  seeming  profanity  of  that 
sacred  day,  "  as  he  had  no  dinner  to  eat,  but  what 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  that  pool!"  This,  Mr.  Woods, 
the  player,  who  knew  Cunningham  well,  and 
esteemed  him  much,  assured  me  was  true. 


TWEED  SIDE. 

In  Ramsay's  Tea-table  Miscellany,  he  tells  us 
that  about  thirty  of  the  songs  in  that  publica- 
tion were  the  works  of  some  young  gentlemen 
of  his  acquaintance ;  which  songs  are  marked 
with  the  letters  D.  C.  &c.  — Old  Mr.  Tytler  of 
Woodhouselee,  the  worthy  and  able  defender  of 
the  beauteous  Queen  of  Scots,  told  me  that  the 
songs  marked  C,  in  the  Tea-table,  were  the  com- 
position of  a  Mr.  Crawfurd,  of  the  house  of 
Achnaraes,  who  was  afterwards  unfortunately 
drowned  coming  from  France. — As  Tytler  was 
most  intimately  acquainted  with  Allan  Ramsay, 
I  think  the  anecdote  may  be  depended  on.  Of 
consequence,  the  beautiful  song  of  Tweed  Side 
is  Mr.  Crawfurd's,  and  indeed  does  great  honour 
to  his  poetical  talents.  He  was  a  Robert  Craw- 
furd; the  Mary  he  celebrates  was  a  Mary 
Stewart,  of  the  Castle-Milk  family,  afterwards 
married  to  a  Mr.  John  Ritchie. 

I  have  seen  a  song,  calling  itself  the  original 
Tweed  Side,  and  said  to  have  been  composed  by 
a  Lord  Tester.  It  consisted  of  two  stanzas,  of 
which  I  still  recollect  the  first — 

"  When  Maggy  and  I  was  acquaint, 

I  carried  my  noddle  fu'  hie; 
Nae  lintwhite  on  a'  the  green  plain, 

Nor  gowdspink  sae  happy  as  me  : 
But  I  saw  her  sae  fair  and  I  lo'ed: 

I  woo'd,  but  I  came  nae  great  speed; 
So  now  I  maun  wander  abroad, 

And  lay  ray  banes  far  frae  the  Tweed."— 


THE  POSY. 
It  appears  evident  to  me  that  Oswald  com- 
posed his  Roslin  Castle  on  the  modulation  of  this 
air.— In  the  second  part  of  Oswald's,  in  the 
three  first  bars,  he  has  either  hit  on  a  wonder- 
ful similarity  to,  or  else  he  has  entirely  borrowed 
the  three  first  bars  of  the  old  air;  and  the 
close  of  both  tunes  is  almost  exactly  the  same. 
The  old  verses  to  which  it  was  sung,  when  I 


took  down  the  notes  from  a  country  girl's 
voice,  had  no  great  merit. — The  following  is  » 
specimen : 

'«  There  was  a  pretty  May,  and  a  milkin  she  went ; 
Wi'  her  red  rosy  cheeks,  and  her  coal  black  hair ; 
And  she  has  met  a  young  man  a  comin  o'er  the  bfc::t, 
With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee,  fair  May. 

O  where  are  ye  goin,  my  ain  pretty  May, 
Wi'  thy  red  rosy  cheeks,  and  thy  coal  black  ha";  ? 

Unto  the  yowes  a  milkin,  kind  sir,  she  says. 
With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee,  fair  May. 

What  if  I  gang  alang  with  thee,  my  ain  pretty  May, 
Wi'  thy  red  rosy  cheeks,  and  thy  coal-black  hair; 

Wad  I  be  aught  the  warse  o'  that,  kind  sir,  she  says, 
With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee,  fair  May. 


MARY'S  DREAM. 
The  Mary  here  alluded  to  is  generally  sup- 
posed to  be  Miss  Mary  Macghie,  daughter  to 
the  Laird  of  Airds,  in  Galloway.  The  poet  waa 
a  Mr.  John  Lowe,  who  likewise  wrote  another 
beautiful  song,  called  Pompey's  Ghost. — I  have 
seen  a  poetic  epistle  from  him  in  North  America, 
where  he  now  is,  or  lately  was,  to  a  lady  in 
Scotland. — By  the  strain  of  the  verses,  it  ap- 
peared that  they  allude  to  some  love  affair. 


THE  MAID  THAT  TENDS  THE  GOATS. 

BY   MR.   DUDGEON. 

This  Dudgeon  is  a  respectable  farmer's  son 
in  Berwickshire. 


I  WISH  MY  LOVE  WERE  IN  A  MIRE. 
I  NEVER  heard  more  of  the  words  of  this  old 
song  than  the  title. 


ALLAN  WATER. 
This  Allan  Water,  which  the  composer  of  the 
music  has  honoured  with  the  name  of  the  air,  I 
have  been  told  is  Allan  Water,  in  Strathallan. 


THERE'S  NAE  LUCK  ABOUT  THE  HOUSE. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  songs  in  the 
Scots,  or  any  other  language. — The  two  lines, 

"  And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ! 
And  will  I  hear  him  speak  !" 

as  well  as  the  two  preceding  ones,  are  unequalled 
almost  by  anything  I  ever  heard  or  read :  and 
the  lines. 


REMAKSS    ON   SCOTTIbH    SONG. 


507 


«  The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 
The  neist  we  never  saw," — 

are  worthy  of  the  first  poet.  It  is  long  posterior 
to  Ramsay's  days.  About  the  year  1771,  or  72, 
it  came  first  on  the  streets  as  a  ballad ;  and  I 
suppose  the  composition  of  the  song  was  not 
much  anterior  to  that  period. 


TABRY  WOO. 

This  is  a  very  pretty  song  ;  but  I  fancy  that 
the  first  half  stanza,  as  well  as  the  tune  itself, 
are  much  older  than  the  rest  of  the  words. 


GRAMACHREE. 
The  song  of  Gramachree  was  composed  by  a 
Mr.  Poe,  a  counsellor  at  law  in  Dublin.  This 
anecdote  I  had  from  a  gentleman  who  knew  the 
lady,  the  *'  Molly,"  who  is  the  subject  of  the 
song,  and  to  whom  Mr.  Poe  sent  the  first  manu- 
script of  his  most  beautiful  verses.  I  do  not 
remember  any  single  line  that  has  more  true 
pathos  than 

«  How  can  she  break  that  honest  heart  that  wears  her  in 
its  core!" 

But  as  the  song  is  Irish,  it  had  nothing  to  do 
m  this  collection. 


THE  COLLIER'S   BONNIE   LASSIE. 
The  first  half  stanza  is  much  older  than  the 
days  of  Ramsay. — The  old  words  began  thus : 

«*  The  collier  has  a  dochter,  and,  O,  she's  wonder  bonnie! 
A  laird  he  was  that  sought  her,  rich  baith  in  lands 
and  money. 
She  wad  na  hae  a  laird,  nor  wad  she  be  a  lady. 
But  she  wad  hae  a  collier,  the  colour  o'  her  daddie." 


MY  AIN  KIND  DEARIE— O. 
The  old  words  of  this  song  are  omitted  here, 
enough  much  more  beautiful  than  these  in- 
Berted;  which  were  mostly  composed  by  poor 
Fergusson,  in  one  of  his  merry  humours.  The 
old  words  began  thus  : 

"  I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  nin  kind  dearie,  O, 
I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 
Altho'  the  nipht  were  ne'er  sae  wat. 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary,  O  ; 
I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O." — 


MARY  SCOTT,  THE  FLOWER  OP  YARROW. 

Mr.  Robertson,  in  his  statistical  account  of 
the  parish  of  Selkirk,  says,  that  Mary  Scott, 
the  Flower  of  Yarrow,  was  descended  from  th« 
Dryhope,  and  married  into  the  Harden  family 
Her  daughter  was  married  to  a  predecessor  of 
the  present  Sir  Francis  Elliot,  of  Stobbs,  and 
of  the  late  Lord  Heathfield. 

There  is  a  circumstance  in  their  contract  Oi 
marriage  that  merits  attention,  and  it  strongly 
marks  the  predatory  spirit  of  the  times.  The 
father-in-law  agrees  to  keep  his  daughter  for 
some  time  after  the  marriage  ;  for  which  the 
son-in-law  binds  himself  to  give  him  the  profits 
of  the  first  Michaelmas  moon  I 


DOWN  THE  BURN,  DAVIE. 
I  HAVE  been  informed,  that  the  tune  of 
"  Down  the  burn,  Davie,"  was  the  composition 
of  David  Maigh,  keeper  of  the  blood  slough 
hounds,  belonging  to  the  Laird  of  Riddel,  in 
Tweeddale 


BLINK  o'er  the  BURN,  SWEET  BETTIE. 
The  old  words,  all  that  I  remember,  are,— 

"  Blink  over  the  burn,  sweet  Betty, 

It  is  a  cauld  winter  night: 
It  rains,  it  hails,  it  thunders. 

The  moon  she  gies  nae  light: 
It's  a'  for  the  sake  o'  sweet  Betty, 

That  ever  I  tint  my  way; 
Sweet,  let  me  lie  beyond  thee 

Until  it  be  break  o'  day. — 

O,  Betty  will  bake  my  bread. 

And  Betty  will  brew  my  ale, 
And  Betty  will  be  my  .ove, 

When  I  come  over  the  dale : 
Blink  over  the  bum,  sweet  Betty^ 

Blink  over  the  burn  to  me, 
And  while  I  hae  life,  dear  lassie. 

My  ain  sweet  Betty  thou's  be." 


THE  BLITHSOME  BRIDAL 
I  FIND  the  "  Blithsome  Bridal"  in  Jamei 
Watson's  collection  of  Scots  poems,  printed  at 
Edinburgh,  in  1706.  This  collection,  the  pub- 
lisher says,  is  the  first  of  its  nature  which  has 
been  published  in  our  own  native  Scots  dialect 
— it  is  now  extremely  scarce. 


b08 


EEMARKS   ON   SCOTTISH    SONG. 


JOHN  HAT'S  BONNIE  LASSIE. 
John  Hay's  "  Bonnie  Lassie"  was  daughter 
of  John  Hay,  Earl  or  Marquis  of  Tweeddale, 
and  late  Countess  Dowager  of  Roxburgh. — She 
died  at  Broomlands,  near  Kelso,  some  time  be- 
twem  the  years  1720  and  1740. 


THE  BONIE  BRUCKET  LASSIE. 
Tub  two  first  lines  of  this  song  are  all  of  it 
that  is  old.  The  rest  of  the  song,  as  well  as 
those  songs  in  the  Museum  marked  T.,  are  the 
works  of  an  obscure,  tippling,  but  extraordinary 
body  of  the  name  of  Tytler,  commonly  known 
by  the  name  of  Balloon  Tytler,  from  his  having 
projected  a  balloon ;  a  mortal,  who,  though  he 
drudges  about  Edinburgh  as  a  common  printer, 
with  leaky  shoes,  a  sky-lighted  hat,  and  knee- 
buckles  as  unlike  as  George-by-the-grace-of- 
God,  and  Solomon-the-son-of-David ;  yet  that 
same  unknown  drunken  mortal  is  author  and 
compiler  of  three-fourths  of  Elliot's  pompous 
Encyclopedia  Britannica,  which  he  composed 
at  half  a  guinea  a  week  ! 


SAE  MERRY  AS  WE  TWA  HA'E  BEEN. 
This  song  is  beautiful.— The  chorus  in  parti- 
cular is  truly  pathetic.     I  never  could  learn 
anything  of  its  author. 

CHORUS. 

"  Sae  merry  as  we  twa  ha'e  been, 
Sae  merry  as  we  twa  ha'e  been  ; 
My  heart  is  like  for  to  break, 

When  I  think  on  the  days  we  ha'e  seen." 


THE  BANKS  OF  FORTH. 
This  air  is  Oswald's. 


THE  BUSH  ABOON  TRAQUAIR. 
This  is  another  beautiful  song  of  Mr.  Craw- 
furd's  composition.  In  the  neighbourhoQd  of 
Traquair,  tradition  still  shows  the  old  "  Bush  ;" 
which,  when  I  saw  it,  in  the  year  1787,  was 
composed  of  eight  or  nine  ragged  birches.  The 
Earl  of  Traquair  has  planted  a  clump  of  trees 
bear  by,  which  he  calls  "  The  New  Bush." 


CROMLET'S  LILT. 
The   following  interesting   account  of  thit 
plaintive  dirge  was  communicated  to  Mr.  Rid- 
del by  Alexander  Eraser  Tytler,  Esq.,  of  Wood- 
houselee. 

••  In  the  latter  end  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
the  Chisolms  were  proprietors  of  the  estate  of 
Cromlecks  (now  possessed  by  the  Drummonds). 
The  eldest  son  of  that  family  was  very  much 
attached  to  a  daughter  of  Sterling  of  A/doch, 
commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Fair  Helen  of 
Ardoch. 

**  At  that  time  the  opportunities  of  meeting 
betwixt  the  sexes  were  more  rare,  consequently 
more  sought  after  than  now ;  and  the  Scottish 
ladies,  far  from  priding  themselves  on  extensive 
literature,  were  thought  sufl5cieniiy  book-learned 
if  they  could  make  out  the  Scriptures  in  their 
mother-tongue.     Writing  was  entirely  out  of 
the  line  of  female  education.     At  that  period 
the  most  of  our  young  men  of  family  sought  a 
fortune,  or  found  a  grave,  in  France.     Cromlus, 
when  he  went  abroad  to  the  war,  was  obliged 
to  leave  the  management  of  his  correspondence 
with  his  mistress  to  a  lay-brother  of  the  monas- 
tery of  Dumblain,  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood  of  Cromleck,    and  near   Ardoch.      This 
man,    unfortunately,   was   deeply   sensible    of 
Helen's  charms.     He  artfully  prepossessed  her 
with  stories  to  the  disadvantage  of  Cromlus ; 
and,  by  misinterpreting  or  keeping  up  the  letters 
and  messages  intrusted  to  his  care,  he  entirely 
irritated  both.     All  connexion  was  broken  off 
betwixt   them;    Helen  was   inconsolable,    and 
Cromlus   has  left   behind   him,  in    the   ballad 
called  'Cromlet's  Lilt,'  a  proof  of  the  elegance 
of  his  genius,  as  well  as  the  steadiness  of  his 
love. 

"When  the  artful  monk  thought  time  had 
sufl&ciently  softened  Helen's  sorrow,  he  pro- 
posed himself  as  a  lover:  Helen  was  obdurate: 
but  at  last,  overcome  by  the  persuasions  of  her 
brother,  with  whom  she  lived,  and  who,  having 
a  family  of  thirty-one  children,  was  probably 
very  well  pleased  to  get  her  off  his  hands — she 
submitted,  rather  than  consented  to  the  cere- 
mony ;  but  there  her  compliance  ended ;  and, 
when  forcibly  put  into  bed,  she  started  quite 
frantic  from  it,  screaming  out,  that  after  three 
gentle  taps  on  the  wainscot,  at  the  bed-head, 
she  heard  Cromlus's  voice,  crying,  '  Helen, 
Helen,  mind  me !'  Cromlus  soon  after  coming 
home,  the  treachery  of  the  confidant  was  dig 


REMARKS    JN   SCOTTISH    SONG. 


505 


covered, — her  marriage  disannulled, — and  Helen 
became  Lady  Cromlecks." 

N.  B.  Marg.  Murray,  mother  to  these  thirty- 
one  children,  was  daughter  to  Murray  of  Strewn, 
one  of  the  seventeen  sons  of  Tullybardine,  and 
whose  youngest  son,  commonly  called  the  Tutor 
of  Ardoch,  died  in  the  year  1715,  aged  111 
years. 


MY  DEARIE,  IF  THOU  DIE. 
Another  beautiful  song  of  Crawfurd's. 


SHE  ROSE  AND  LOOT  ME  IN. 
The  old  set  of  this  song,  which  is  still  to  be 
found  in  printed  collections,  is  much  prettier 
than  this  ;  but  somebody,  I  believe  it  was  Ram- 
say, took  it  into  his  head  to  clear  it  of  some 
seeming  indelicacies,  and  made  it  at  once  more 
chaste  and  more  dull. 


GO  TO  THE  EWE-BUGHTS,  MARION, 
I  AM  not  sure  if  this  old  and  charming  air  be 
of  the  South,  as  is  commonly  said,  or  of  the 
North  of  Scotland.  There  is  a  song,  apparently 
as  ancient  as  "Ewe-bughts,  Marion,"  which 
sings  to  the  same  tune,  and  is  evidently  of  the 
North. — It  begins  thus  : 

"  The  Lord  o'  Gordon  had  three  dochters, 
Mary,  Marget,  and  Jean, 
They  wad  na  stay  at  bonie  Castle  Gordon, 
But  awa  to  Aberdeen." 


LEWIS  GORDON. 
This  air  is  a  proof  how  one  of  our  Scots  tunes 
comes  to  be  composed  out  of  another.     I  have 
one  of  the  earliest  copies  of  the  song,  and  it 
has  prefixed, 

"  Tune  of  Tarry  Woo."— 
Of  which   tune   a  different  set  has  insensibly 
varied  into  a  different  air. — To  a  Scots  critic, 
the  pathos  of  the  line, 

«  Tho'  his  bock  b«  at  the  wa»," 
— must  be  very  striking.     It  needs  not  a  Ja- 
cobite prejudice  to  be  affected  with  this  song. 

The  supposed  author  of  "Lewis  Gordon" 
was  a  Mr.  Geddes,  priest,  at  Shenval,  in  the 
Ainzie. 


O  HONE  A  RIE. 
De.  Blacklock  informed  me  that  this  song  wai 
composed  on  the  infamous  massacre  of  Glencoe. 


I'LL  NEVER  LEAVE  THEE. 
This  is  another  of  Crawfurd's  songs,  but  I 
do  not  think  in  his  happiest  manner. — What  en 
absurdity,  to  join  such  names  as  Adonis  and 
Mart/  together ! 


CORN  RIGS  ARE  BONIE. 
All  the  old  words  that  ever  I  could  meet  to 
this  air  were  the  following,  which  seem  to  have 
been  an  old  chorus  : 

"  O  com  rigs  and  rye  rigs, 
O  corn  rigs  are  bonie ; 
And  where'er  you  meet  a  bonie  lass, 
Preen  up  her  cockernony." 


THE   MUCKING   OF   GEORDIE  S   BYRE. 
The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old ;    the  rest  il 
the  work  of  Balloon  Tytler. 


BIDE   YE   YET. 
There  is  a  beautiful  song  to  this  tune,  begin' 
ning, 

"Alas,  my  son,  yon  little  know," — 

which  is  the  composition  of  Miss  Jenny  Graham, 
of  Dumfries. 


WAUKIN  O'  THE  FAULD. 
There  are  two  stanzas  still  sung  to  this  tune, 
which  I  take  to  be  the  original  song  whence 
Ramsay  composed  his  beautiful  song   of  that 
name  in  the  Gentle  Shepherd. — It  begins 

"  O  will  ye  speak  at  our  town, 
As  ye  come  frae  the  fauld." 

I  regret  that,  as  in  many  of  our  old  songs, 
the  delicacy  of  this  old  fragment  is  not  equal 
tolts  wit  and  humour. 


TRANENT-MUIR 
**  Tranent-Muir,"  was  composed  by  a  Mr. 
Skirving,  a  very  worthy  respectable  farmer  near 
Haddington.  I  have  heard  the  anecdote  often, 
that  Lieut.  Smith,  whom  he  mentions  in  tho 
ninth   stanza,  came   to   Haddington  after  the 


610 


REMARKS   ON    SCOTTISH   SONG. 


publication  of  the  song,  and  sent  a  challenge  to 
Bkirving  to  meet  him  at  Haddington,  and  an- 
swer for  the  unworthy  manner  in  which  he  had 
noticed  him  in  his  song.  "  Gang  away  back," 
said  the  honest  farmer,  "and  tell  Mr.  Smith 
that  1  hue  nae  leisure  to  come  to  Haddington  ; 
but  tell  him  to  come  here,  and  I'll  tak  a  look  o' 
him,  and  if  I  think  I'm  fit  to  fecht  him,  I'll 
focht  him;  and  if  no,  I'll  do  as  he  did— I'll  rin 


TO  THE  WEAVERS  GIN  YE  GO. 
The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old,  the  rest  of  it 
is  mine.  Here,  once  for  all,  let  me  apologize 
for  many  silly  compositions  of  mine  in  this 
work.  Many  beautiful  airs  wanted  words  ;  in 
the  hurry  of  other  avocations,  if  I  could  string 
a  parcel  of  rhymes  together  anything  near  tole- 
rable, I  was  fain  to  let  them  pass.  He  must  be 
an  excellent  poet  indeed  whose  every  perform- 
ance is  excellent. 


POLWARTH  ON  THE  GREEN. 
The  author  of  "  Polwarth  on  the  Green"  is 
Capt.  John  Drummond  M'Gregor,  of  the  family 
of  Bochaldie. 


STREPHON  AND  LYDIA. 

The  following  account  of  this  song  I  had 
from  Dr.  Blacklock. 

The  Strephon  and  Lydia  mentioned  in  the 
Bong  were  perhaps  the  loveliest  couple  of  their 
time.  The  gentleman  was  commonly  known  by 
the  name  of  Beau  Gibson.  The  lady  was  the 
"  Gentle  Jean,"  celebrated  somewhere  in  Ha- 
milton of  Bangour's  poems. — Having  frequently 
met  at  public  places,  they  had  formed  a  recipro- 
cal attachment,  which  their  friends  thought 
dangerous,  as  their  resources  were  by  no  means 
adequate  to  their  tastes  and  habits  of  life.  To 
elude  the  bad  consequences  of  su3h  a  connexion, 
Strephon  was  sent  abroad  with  a  commission, 
and  perished  in  Admiral  Vernon's  expedition  to 
Carthagena. 

The  author  of  this  song  was  William  Wallace, 
Esq.  of  Cairnhill,  in  Ayrshire. 


I'M  O'ER  YOUNG  TO  MARRY  YET. 
The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old.     The  rest  of 
it,  such  as  it  is,  is  mine 


M'PHERSON  S  FAREWEJ-L. 

MTherson,  a  daring  robber,  in  the  begin« 
ning  of  this  century,  was  condemned  to  be 
hanged  at  the  assizes  of  Inverness.  He  is  said, 
when  under  sentence  of  death,  to  have  composed 
this  tune,  which  he  called  his  own  lament  or 
farewell. 

Gow  has  published  a  variation  of  this  fine 
tune  as  his  own  composition,  which  he  calls 
"  The  Princess  Augusta." 


MY  JO,  JANET. 

Johnson,  the  publisher,  with  a  foolish  deli- 
cacy, refused  to  insert  the  last  stanza  of  this 
humorous  ballad. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  COMPLAINT. 
The  words  by  a  Mr.  R.  Scott,  from  the  town 
or  neighbourhood  of  Biggar. 


THE  BIRKS  OP  ABERFELDY. 
I  COMPOSED  these  stanzas  standing  under  the 
falls  of  Aberfeldy,  at  or  near  Moness. 


THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE  O. 
This  was  a  composition  of  mine  in  very  early 
life,  before  I  was  known  at  all  in  the  world.  My 
Highland  lassie  was  a  warm-hearted,  charming 
young  creature  as  ever  blessed  a  man  with 
generous  love.  After  a  pretty  long  tract  of  the 
most  ardent  reciprocal  attachment,  we  met  by 
appointment  on  the  second  Sunday  of  May,  in 
a  sequestered  spot  by  the  banks  of  Ayr,  where 
we  spent  the  day  in  taking  a  farewell  before  she 
should  embark  for  the  We=t  Highlands,  to  ar- 
range matters  among  her  friends  for  our  pro- 
jected change  of  life.  At  the  close  of  autumn 
following  she  crossed  the  sea  to  meet  me  at 
Greenock,  where  she  had  scarce  landed  when 
she  was  seized  with  a  malignant  fever,  which 
hurried  my  dear  girl  to  the  grave  in  a  few  days, 
before  I  could  even  hear  of  her  last  illness. 


FIFE,  AND  A'  THE  LANDS  ABOUT  IT. 
This  song  is  Dr.  Blacklock's.    He,  as  well  as 
I,  often  gave  Johnson  verses,   trifling  enough 


KEMAKKS    ON    SCOTTISH    SONG. 


511 


perhaps,  but  they  served  as  a  vehicle  to  the 
music. 


WKRE  NA  MY  HEART  LIGHT  I  WAD  DIE. 

Lord  Hailes,  in  the  notes  to  his  collection  of 
ancient  Scots  poems,  says  that  this  song  was 
^he  composition  of  a  Lady  Grissel  Baillie, 
daughter  of  the  first  Earl  of  Marchmont,  and 
vife  of  George  Baillie,  of  Jerviswood. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  DREAM. 
This  song  is  the  composition  of  Balloon  Tytler. 


STRATHALLAN'S  LAMENT. 

This  air  is  the  composition  of  one  of  the 
«vorthiest  and  best-hearted  men  living — Allan 
Masterton,  schoolmaster  in  Edinburgh.  As  he 
and  I  were  both  sprouts  of  Jacobitism  we  agreed 
to  dedicate  the  words  and  air  to  that  cause. 

To  tell  the  matter-of-fact,  except  when  my 
passions  were  heated  by  some  accidental  cause, 
my  Jacobitism  was  merely  by  way  of  vive  la 
bagatelle. 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY. 

The  chorus  of  this  is  old ;  the  two  stanzas 
are  mine. 


THE  TEARS  OP  SCOTLAND. 
Dr.  Blacklock  told  me  that  Smollet,  who  was 
at  the  bottom  a  great  Jacobite,  composed  these 
beautiful  and  pathetic  verses  on  the  infamous 
depredations  of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  after 
the  bftttle  of  Colloden. 


WHAT  WILL  I  DO  GIN  MY  HOGGIE  DIE. 

Dr.  Walker,  who  was  minister  at  Moffat  in 
1772,  and  is  now  (1791)  Professor  of  Natural 
History  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  told 
the  following  anecdote  concerning  this  air. — 
H«»  said,  that  some  gentlemen,  riding  a  few 
jrears  ago  through  Liddesdale,  stopped  at  a 
bamlet  consisting  of  a  few  houses,  called  Moss 
Piatt,  when  they  were  struck  with  this  tune, 
whicli  an  old  woman,  spinning  on  a  rock  at  her 
door,  was  singing.  All  she  could  tell  concern- 
ing it  was,  that  she  was  taught  it  when  a  child. 


and  it  was  called  "What  will  I  do  gin  my  Hog- 
gie  die  ?"  No  person,  except  a  few  females  at 
Moss  Piatt,  knew  this  fine  old  tune,  which  in  all 
probability  would  have  been  lost  hud  not  one 
of  the  gentlemen,  who  happened  to  have  a  flut4 
with  him,  taken  it  down. 


I  DREAM'D  I  LAY  WHERE  FLOWERS  WERE 
SPRINGING. 
These  two  stanzas  I  composed  when  I  was 
seventeen,   and  are  among   the  oldest  of  my 
printed  pieces. 


AH  !   THE  POOR  SHHPHERD'S  MOURNFUL 
FATE. 

Tune— <' Gallashiels." 

The  old  title,  "  Sour  Plums  o'  Gallashiels,'' 
probably  was  the  beginning  of  a  song  to  this 
air,  which  is  now  lost. 

The  tune  of  Gallashiels  was  composed  about 
the  beginning  of  the  present  century  by  the 
Laird  of  Gallashiel's  piper. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  DEVON. 
These  verses  were  composed  on  a  charming 
girl,  a  Miss  Charlotte  Hamilton,  who  is  now 
married  to  James  M'Kitrick  Adair,  Esq.,  phy- 
sician.  She  is  sister  to  my  worthy  friend  Gavin 
Hamilton,  of  Mauchline,  and  was  born  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ayr,  but  was,  at  the  time  I  wrote 
these  lines,  residing  at  Herveyston,  in  Clack- 
mannanshire, on  the  romantic  banks  of  the  little 
river  Devon.  I  first  heard  the  air  from  a  lady 
in  Inverness,  and  got  the  notes  taken  down  for 
this  work. 


MILL,  MILL  0. 
The  original,  or  at  least  a  song  evidently 
prior  to  Ramsay's  is  still  extant — It  nms  thus, 


«•  The  mill,  mill  O,  and  the  kill,  kill  O, 
And  the  coggin  o'  Peggy's  wheel,  O, 
The  sack  and  the  sieve,  and  a'  she  did  leava 
And  danc'd  the  miller's  reel  C— 

As  I  came  down  yon  waterside, 

And  by  you  shellin-hill  O, 
There  I  spied  a  bonie  bonie  lass. 

And  a  lass  that  I  lov'd  right  well  0.>   • 
*  •  #  • 


512 


BEMARKS    ON    SCOTTISH    SONG/ 


I  WE  RAN  AND  THEY  RAN. 

The  author  of  "  We  ran  and  they  ran"— was 
a  Rev.  Mr.  Murdoch  M'Lennan,  minister  at 
Crathie,  Dee-side. 


WALT,  WALY. 
In  the  west  country  I  have  heard  a  different 
edition  of  the    second  stanza. — Instead  of  the 
four  lines,  beginning  with,  "When  cockle-shells, 
&c.,"  the  other  way  ran  thus :  — 

"  O  wherefore  need  I  busk  my  head, 
Or  wherefore  need  1  kame  ray  hair, 
Sin  my  fause  luve  has  me  forsook, 
And  says,  he'll  never  luve  me  mair." 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 
Dr.  Blacklock  informed  me  that  he  had  often 
heard  the  tradition,  that  this  air  was  composed 
hy  a  carman  in  Glasgow. 


DUMBARTON  DRUMS. 
This  is  the  last  of  the  West-Highland  airs ; 
and  from  it  over  the  whole  tract  of  country  to 
the  confines  of  Tweed-side,  there  is  hardly  a 
tune  or  song  that  one  can  say  has  taken  its 
origin  from  any  place  or  transaction  in  that  part 
of  Scotland. — The  oldest  Ayrshire  reel,  is  Stew- 
arton  Lasses,  which  was  made  by  the  father  of 
the  present  Sir  Walter  Montgomery  Cunning- 
ham, alias  Lord  Lysle  ;  since  which  period  there 
has  indeed  been  local  music  in  that  country  in 
great  plenty. — Johnie  Faa  is  the  only  old  song 
which  I  could  ever  trace  as  belonging  to  the  ex- 
pansive county  of  Ayr. 


CAULD  KAIL  IN  ABERDEEN. 
I'His  song  is  by  the  Duke  of  Gordon 
^ld  verses  are, 

«*  There's  cauld  kail  m  Aberdeen; 
And  castocks  in  Strathbogie ; 
When  ilka  lad  maun  hae  his  lass, 
Then  fye,  gie  me  my  coggie. 

CHORUS. 

My  coggie,  Sirs,  my  coggie,  Sirs, 
I  cannot  want  my  coggie ; 

I  wadna  gie  my  three-girr'd  cap 
Far  e'er  a  quene  on  Bogie. — 

f  here's  Johnie  Smith  has  got  a  wife, 
That  scrimps  him  o'  his  coggie, 

If  she  ,vere  mine,  upcn  my  life 
I  wad  douk  her  in  a  bogie." 


.—The 


FOR  LAKE  OF  GOLD. 
The  country  girls  in  Ayrshire,  instead  of  the 

line — 

"  She  me  forsook  for  a  great  duke," 
say, 

"  For  Athole's  duke  she  me  forsook:" 

which  I  take  to  be  the  origina.  reading. 

These  were  composed  by  the  late  Dr.  Austin, 
physican  at  Edinburgh. — He  had  courted  a  lady, 
to  whom  he  was  shortly  to  have  been  married ; 
but  the  Duke  of  Athole  having  seen  her,  became 
so  much  in  love  with  her,  that  he  made  pro- 
posals of  marriage,  which  were  accepted  of,  and 
she  jilted  the  doctor. 


HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  MY  TRUE  LOVE,  &c. 
This  song  is  Dr.  Blacklock's.    He  told  me  that 
tradition  gives  the  air  to  our  James  IV.  of  Scot- 
land. 


HEY  TUTTI  TAITI. 
I  HAVE  met  the  tradition  universally  over 
Scotland,  and  particularly  about  Stirling,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  scene,  that  this  air  was 
Robert  Bruce's  march  at  the  battle  of  Bannock- 
burn. 


RAVING  WINDS  AROUND  HER  BLOWING. 

I  COMPOSED  these  verses  on  Miss  Isabella 
M'Leod,  of  Raza,  alluding  to  her  feelings  on 
the  death  of  her  sister,  and  the  still  more  me- 
lancholy death  of  her  sister's  husband,  the  late 
Earl  of  Loudon ;  who  shot  himself  out  of  sheer 
heart-break  at  some  mortifications  he  suffered, 
owing  to  the  deranged  state  of  his  finances. 


TAK  YOUR  AULD  CLOAK  ABOUT  YE. 
A  PART  of  this  old   song,  according   to  the 
English  set  of  it,  is  quoted  in  Shakspeare. 


YE  GODS,  WAS  STREPHON  S  PICTURE 
BLEST  ? 

Tune — "  Fourteenth  of  October. 
The  title  of  this  air  shows  that  it  alludes  to 
the  famous  king  Crispian,  the  patron  of  the  ho- 
nourable corporation  of  shoemakers. — St.  Cris- 
pian's  day  falls  on  the  fourteenth  of  October 
old  style,  as  the  old  proverb  tells  : 

"  On  the  fourteenth  of  October 
Was  ne'er  a  sator  sober." 


KEMAKKS   ON   SCOTTISH   SONG. 


613 


8IN0E  ROBB'D  OP  ALL  THAT  CHARM'D  MY 
VIEWS. 
The  old  name  of  this  air  is,  "  the  Blossom  o' 
the  Raspberry."    The  song  is  Dr.  Blacklock's. 


YOUNG  DAMON. 
This  air  is  by  Oswald. 


KIRK  WAD  LET  ME  BE. 

Tradition  in  the  western  parts  of  Scotland 
tells  that  this  old  song,  of  which  there  are  still 
three  stanzas  extant,  once  saved  a  covenanting 
clergyman  out  of  a  scrape.  It  was  a  little  prior 
to  the  revolution,  a  period  when  being  a  Scots 
covenanter  was  being  a  felon,  that  one  of  their 
clergy,  who  was  at  that  very  time  hunted  by 
the  merciless  soldiery,  fell  in,  by  accident,  with 
a  party  of  the  military.  The  soldiers  were  not 
exactly  acquainted  with  the  person  of  the  reve- 
rend gentleman  of  whom  they  were  in  search ; 
but  from  suspicious  circumstances,  they  fancied 
that  they  had  got  one  of  that  cloth  and  oppro- 
brious persuasion  among  them  in  the  person  of 
this  stranger.  "Mass  John"  to  extricate  him- 
self, assumed  a  freedom  of  manners,  very  unlike 
the  gloomy  strictness  of  his  sect ;  and  among 
other  convivial  exhibitions,  sung  (and  some  tra- 
ditions say,  composed  on  the  spur  of  the  occa- 
sion) "  Kirk  wad  let  me  be,"  with  such  eflFect, 

that  the  solt'icrs  swore  he  was  a  d d  honest 

fellow,  and  *  bat  it  was  impossible  he  could  be- 
long to  thos*>  hellish  conventicles ;  and  so  gave 
him  his  liberty. 

The  first  stanza  of  this  song,  a  little  altered, 
is  a  favourite  kind  of  dramatic  interlude  acted 
at  country  weddings,  in  the  south-west  parts 
of  the  kingdom.  A  young  fellow  is  dressed  up 
like  an  old  beggar ;  a  peruke,  commonly  made 
of  carded  tow,  represents  hoary  locks ;  an  old 
bonnet ;  a  ragged  plaid,  or  surtout,  bound  with 
a  straw  rope  for  a  girdle ;  a  pair  of  old  shoes, 
with  straw  ropes  twisted  round  his  ankles,  as  is 
done  by  shepherds  in  snowy  weather :  his  face 
they  disguise  as  like  wretched  old  age  as  they 
can :  in  this  plight  he  is  brought  into  the  wed- 
ding-house, frequently  to  the  astonishment  of 
strangers,  who  are  not  in  the  secret,  and  begins 
to  sing — 

«  O,  I  am  a  silly  auld  man, 

My  name  it  ia  auld  Glenae,"  &c 
33 


He  is  asked  to  drink,  and  by  and  bye  to 
dance,  which  after  some  uncouth  excuses  he  ia 
prevailed  on  to  do,  the  fiddler  playing  the  tune, 
which  here  is  commonly  called  "Auld  Glenae  ;" 
in  short  he  is  all  the  time  so  plied  with  liquor 
that  he  is  understood  to  get  intoxicated,  ajid 
with  all  the  ridiculous  gesticulations  of  an 
old  drunken  beggar,  he  dances  and  staggers 
until  he  falls  on  the  floor ;  yet  still  in  all  his 
riot,  nay,  in  his  rolling  and  tumbling  on  the 
floor,  with  some  or  other  drunken  motion  of  his 
body,  he  beats  time  to  the  music,  till  at  last 
he  is  supposed  to  be  carried  out  dead  drunk. 


MUSING  ON  THE  ROARING  OCEAN. 
I  COMPOSED  these  verses  out  of  compliment  to 
a  Mrs.  M'Lachlan,  whose  husband  is  an  officer 
in  the  East  Indies. 


BLYTHE  WAS  SHE. 
I  COMPOSED  these  verses  while  I  stayed  at 
Ochtertyre  with  Sir  William  Murray. — The  lady, 
who  was  also  at  Ochtertyre  at  the  same  time, 
was  the  well-known  toast,  Miss  Euphemia  Mur- 
ray, of  Lentrose;  she  was  called,  and  very  justly, 
"  The  Flower  of  Strathmore." 


JOHNNIE  FAA,  OR  THE  GYPSIE  LADDIE. 

The  people  in  Ayrshire  begin  this  song — 
"  The  gypsies  cam  to  my  Lord  Cassilis'  yett." — 

They  have  a  great  many  more  stanzas  in  this 
song  than  I  ever  yet  saw  in  any  printed  copy. — 
The  castle  is  still  remaining  at  Maybole,  where 
his  lordship  shut  up  his  wayward  spouse,  and 
kept  her  for  life. 

TO  DAUNTON  ME. 
The  two  following  old  stanzas  to  this  tuu« 
have  some  merit : 

*<  To  daunton  me,  to  daanton  me, 

0  ken  ye  what  it  is  that'll  dnunton  me  ?— 
There's  eighty-eight  and  eighty-nine, 
And  a'  that  I  hae  borne  sinsyne. 
There's  ctss  and  press  and  Presbytne, 

1  think  it  Mrill  do  meikle  for  to  daunton  me 

But  to  wanton  me,  to  wanton  me, 

0  keu  ye  what  it  is  that  wad  wanton  me 
To  see  gude  corn  upon  the  rigs, 

And  banishment  amang  the  Whigs, 
And  right  restor'd  where  right  sud  be, 

1  think  it  would  do  meikle  for  to  wanton  mm 


614 


REMAKKS    ON   SCOTTISH    SONG. 


THE  BONNIE  LASS  MADE  THE  BED  TO  ME. 
"The  Bonnie  Lass  made  the  Bed  to  me," 
was  composed  on  an  amour  of  Charles  II.  when 
Bkulking  in  the  North,  about  Aberdeen,  in  the 
time  of  the  usurpation.  He  formed  une  petite 
of  aire  with  a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Portle- 
tham,  who  was  the  "lass  that  made  the  bed  t: 
him :" — two  verses  of  it  are, 

'<  I  kiss'd  her  lips  sae  rosy  red, 

While  the  tear  stood  blinkin  in  her  e'e ; 
I  said,  My  lassie,  dinna  cry, 
For  ye  ay  shall  make  the  bed  to  m«. 

She  took  her  mither's  holland  sheets, 
And  made  them  a'  in  sarks  to  me ; 

Blythe  and  merry  may  she  be, 
The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me." 


ABSENCE. 
A  SONG  in  the  manner  of  Shenstone. 
This  song  and  air  are  both  by  Dr.  Blacklock. 


I  HAD  A  HORSE  AND  I  HAD  NAE  MAIR. 

This  story  is  founded  on  fact.  A  John  Hun- 
ter, ancestor  to  a  very  respectable  farming  fa- 
mily, who  live  in  a  place  in  the  parish,  I  think, 
of  Galston,  called  Bar-mill,  was  the  luckless 
-hero  that  "  had  a  horse  and  had  nae  mair." — 
For  some  little  youthful  follies  he  found  it  ne- 
cessary to  make  a  retreat  to  the  West-High- 
lands, where  "  he  feed  himself  to  a  Highland 
Laird,"  for  that  is  the  expression  of  all  the  oral 
editions  of  the  song  I  ever  heard. — The  present 
Mr.  Hunter,  who  told  me  the  anecdote,  is  the 
-great-grandchild  of  our  hero. 


UP  AND  WARN  A'  WILLIE. 

This  edition  of  the  song  I  got  from  Tom  Niel, 
of  facetious  fame,  in  Edinburgh.  The  expres- 
sion "  Up  and  warn  a'  Willie,"  alludes  to  the 
Crantara,  or  warning  of  a  Highland  clan  to 
arms.  Not  understanding  this,  the  Lowlanders 
in  the  west  and  south  say,  "  Up  and  waur  them 
a!,"  &c. 


A  ROSE-BUD  BY  MY  EARLY  WALK. 
This  song  I  composed  on  Miss  Jenny  Cruik- 
«hank,  only  child  of  my  worthy  friend  Mr.  Wil- 
Uam   Cruikshank,   of  the   High-School,   Edin- 
burgh.    This  air  is  by  a  David  Sillar,  quondam 


merchant,  and  now  schoolmaster  in  Irvine.  He 
is  the  Davie  to  whom  I  address  my  printed  poet- 
ical epistle  in  the  measure  of  the  Cherry  and 
the  Slae. 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS. 

It  is  remark- worthy  that  the  song  of  **  Holy 
and  Fairly,"  in  all  the  old  editions  of  it,  is 
called  "  The  Drunken  Wife  o'  Galloway,"  which 
localizes  it  to  that  country. 


RATTLIN,  ROARIN  WILLIE. 
The  last  stanza  of  this  song  is  mine  ;  it  was 
composed  out  of  compliment  to  one  of  the  wor' 
thiest  fellows  in  the  world,  William  Dunbar, 
Esq.,  writer  to  the  signet,  Edinburgh,  and  Co- 
lonel of  the  Crochallan  Corps,  a  club  of  wits 
who  took  that  title  at  the  time  of  raising  the 
fencible  regiments. 


WHERE  BRAVING  ANGRY  WINTER  STORMS. 
This  song  I  composed  on  one  of  the  most  ac- 
complished of  women.  Miss  Peggy  Chalmers, 
that  was,  now  Mrs.  Lewis  Hay,  of  Forbes  and 
Co.'s  bank,  Edinburgh. 


TIBBIE,  I  HAE  SEEN  THE  DAY. 
This  song  I  composed  about  the  age  of  seven 
teen. 


NANCY'S  GHOST. 
This  song  is  by  Dr.  Blacklock. 


TUNE  YOUR  PIDDLES,  ETC. 
This  song  was  composed  by  the  Rev,  John 
Skinner,  nonjuror  clergyman  at  Linshart,  near 
Peterhead.  He  is  likewise  author  of  **  Tulloch- 
gorum,"  "  Ewie  wi'  the  crooked  Horn,"  "John 
o'  Badenyond,"  &c.,  and  what  is  of  still  more 
consequence,  he  is  one  of  the  worthiest  of  man- 
kind. He  is  the  author  of  an  ecclesiastical  his- 
tory of  Scotland.  The  air  is  by  Mr.  Marshall, 
butler  to  the  Duke  of  Gordon  ;  the  first  com- 
poser of  strathspeys  of  the  age.  I  have  been 
told  by  somebody,  who  had  it  of  Marshall  him 
self,  that  he  took  the  idea  of  his  three  most 
celebrated  pieces,  "  The  Marquis  of  Huntley's 


REMARKS  ON   SCOTTISH   SONG. 


51{ 


Reel,"  his  "  Farewell,"  and  "Miss  Admiral  Gor- 
don's Reel,"  from  the  old  air,  "The  German 
Lairdie." 


GILL  MORTCE. 
This  plaintive  ballad  ought  to  have  been 
called  Child  Maurice,  and  not  Gil  Maurice.  In 
its  present  dress,  it  has  gained  immortal  honour 
from  Mr.  Home's  taking  from  it  the  ground- 
work of  his  fine  tragedy  of  Douglas.  But  I  am 
of  opinion  that  the  present  ballad  is  a  modern 
composition ;  perhaps  not  much  above  the  age 
of  the  middle  of  the  last  century ;  at  least  I 
should  be  glad  to  see  or  hear  of  a  copy  of  the 
present  words  prior  to  1650.  That  it  was  taken 
from  an  old  ballad,  called  "Child  Maurice," 
now  lost,  I  am  inclined  to  believe ;  but  the  pre- 
sent one  maybe  classed  with  " Hardyknute," 
"Kenneth,"  "Duncan,  the  Laird  of  Wood- 
houselie,"  "Lord  Livingston,"  "Binnorie," 
"  The  Death  of  Monteith,"  and  many  other  mo- 
dem productions,  which  have  been  swallowed  by 
many  readers  as  ancient  fragments  of  old  poems. 
This  beautiful  plaintive  tune  was  composed  by 
Mr.  M'Gibbon,  the  selector  of  a  collection  of 
Scots  tunes.  R.  B. 

In  addition  to  the  observations  on  Gil  Morice, 
I  add,  that  of  the  songs  which  Captain  Riddel 
mentions,  "Kenneth"  and  "Duncan"  are  juve- 
nile compositions  of  Mr.  M'Kenzie,  "  The  Man  of 
Feeling." — M'Kenzie's  father  showed  them  in 
MS.  to  Dr.  Blacklock,  as  the  productions  of  his 
son,  from  which  the  Doctor  rightly  prognosti- 
cated that  the  young  poet  would  make,  in  his 
more  advanced  years,  a  respectable  figure  in 
the  world  of  letters. 

This  I  had  from  Blacklock. 


TIBBIE  DUNBAR. 
This  tune  is  said  to  be  the  composition  of 
John  M'Gill,  fiddler,  in  Girvan.     He  called  it 
after  his  own  name. 


WHEN  I  UPON  THY  BOSOM  LEAN. 
This  song  was  the  work  of  a  very  worthy 
facetious  old  fellow,  John  Lapraik,  late  of  Dal- 
fram,  near  Muirkirk ;  which  little  property  he 
was  obliged  to  sell  in  consequence  of  some  con- 
nexion as  security  for  some  persons  concerned 
va  that  villanous  bubble  thb  aye  bank.     Ho 


has  often  told  me  that  he  composed  this  song; 
one  day  when  his  wife  had  been  fretting  o'er 
their  misfortunes. 


MY  HARRY  WAS  A  GALLANT  GAY. 

Tune — ''Highlander's  Lament." 
The  oldest  title  I  ever  heard  to  this  air,  was, 
"  The  Highland  Watch's  Farewell  to  Ireland." 
The  chorus  I  picked  up  from  an  old  woman  iq 
Dumblane ;  the  rest  of  the  song  is  mine. 


THE  HIGHLAND  CHARACTER. 
This  tune  was  the  composition  of  Gen.  Reid, 
and   called   by  him    "The  Highland,    or   42d 
Regiment's   March."     The  words   are   by  Sir 
Harry  Erskine. 


LEADER-HAUGHS  AND  YARROW. 
There  is  in  several  collections,  the  old  song 
of  "  Leader-Haughs  and  Yarrow."  It  seems  to 
have  been  the  work  of  one  of  our  itinerant  min- 
strels, as  he  calls  himself,  at  the  conclusion  of 
his  song,  "  Minstrel  Burn." 


THE  TAILOR  FELL  THRO'  THE  BED, 
THIMBLE  AN'  A'. 
This  air  is  the  march  of  the  corporation  of 
tailors.     The  second  and  fourth  stanzas  are 
mine. 


BEWARE  O'  BONNIE  ANN. 
I  COMPOSED  this  song  out  of  compliment  to 
Miss  Ann  Masterton,  the  daughter  of  my  ftiend 
Allan  Masterton,  the  author  of  the  air  of  Stratb- 
allan's  Lament,  and  two  or  three  others  in  thia 
work. 


THIS  IS  NO  MINE  AIN  HOUSE. 
The  first  half  stanza  is  old,  the  rest  is  Bam 
say's.     The  old  words  are — 

"  This  is  no  mine  ain  house, 

My  ain  house,  my  ain  house ; 
This  is  no  mine  ain  house, 
I  ken  by  the  biggin  o't. 

Bread  and  cheese  are  my  door-cheeks, 
My  door-cheeks,  my  door-cheeks ; 

Bread  and  cheese  are  my  door-cheeks. 
And  pancakes  the  ri^gin  o't. 


516 


REMARKS   ON    SCOTTISH    SONQ. 


The 


This  is  no  my  ain  wean ; 

My  ain  wean,  my  ain  wean ; 
TluB  is  no  my  ain  wean, 

I  ken  by  the  greetie  o't. 

I'll  tak  the  curchie  aff  my  head, 

Aff  my  head,  aff  my  head  ; 
I'll  tak  the  curchie  aff  my  head, 

And  row't  about  the  feetie  o't." 
tune   is   an   old    Highland   air,    called 


«*  Shuan  truish  willighan. 


LADDIE,  LIE  NEAR  ME. 
This  song  is  by  Blacklock. 


THE  GARDENER  AND  HIS  PAIDLE. 
This  air  is  the  "Gardener's  March."     The 
title  of  the  song  only  is  old ;  the  rest  is  mine. 


THE  DAY  RETURNS,  MY  BOSOM  BURNS. 
Tune. — "  Seventh  of  November." 

I  COMPOSED  this  song  out  of  compliment  to 
one  of  the  happiest  and  worthiest  married  cou- 
ples in  the  world,  Robert  Riddel,  Esq.,  of  Glen- 
riddel,  and  his  lady.  At  their  fire-side  I  have 
enjoyed  more  pleasant  evenings  than  at  all  the 
houses  of  fashionable  people  in  this  country  put 
together  ;  and  to  their  kindness  and  hospitality 
I  am  indebted  for  many  of  the  happiest  hours 
of  my  life. 

THE  GABERLUNZIE  MAN. 
The  "  Gaberlunzie  Man"  is  supposed  to  com- 
memorate an  intrigue  of  James  the  Fifth.  Mr. 
Callander,  of  Craigforth,  published  some  years 
ago  an  edition  of  "  Christ's  Kirk  on  the  Green," 
and  the  *'  Gaberlunzie  Man,"  with  notes  critical 
and  historical.  James  the  Fifth  is  said  to  have 
been  fond  of  Gosford,  in  Aberlady  parish,  and 
that  it  was  suspected  by  his  contemporaries,  that 
in  his  frequent  excursions  to  that  part  of  the 
country,  he  had  other  purposes  in  view  besides 
golfing  and  archery.  Three  favourite  ladies, 
Sandilands,  Weir,  and  Oliphant  (one  of  them 
resided  at  Gosford,  and  the  others  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood), were  occasionally  visited  by  their 
royal  and  gallant  admirer,  which  gave  rise  to 
the  following  advice  to  his  majesty,  from  Sir 
David  Lindsay,  of  the  Mount,  Lord  Lyom. 

*  Sow  not  your  seed  on  Sandylands, 
oend  not  your  strength  m  Weir, 


And  ride  not  on  an  ES»h.^nt, 
For  gawing  o'  your  gear." 


MY  BONNIE  MARY. 

This  air  is  Oswald's ;  the  first  half  stanza  of 
the  song  is  old,  the  rest  mine. 


THE  BLACK  EAGLE. 
This  song  is  by  Dr.  Fordyce,  whose  merits  af 
a  prose  writer  are  well  known. 


JAMIE,  COME  TRY  ME. 
This  air  is  Oswald's ;  the  song  mine. 


THE  LAZY  MIST. 
This  song  is  mine. 


JOHNIE  COPE. 
This  satirical  song  was  composed  to  comme- 
morate General  Cope's  defeat  at  Preston  Pans, 
in  1745,  when  he  marched  against  the  Clans. 

The  air  was  the  tune  of  an  old  song,  of  which 
I  have  heard  some  verses,  but  now  only  remem- 
ber the  title,  which  was, 

"  Will  ye  go  the  coals  in  the  morning." 


I  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 

This  air  is  by  Marshall ;  the  song  I  composed 
out  of  compliment  to  Mrs.  Burns. 
N.  B.  It  was  during  the  honeymoon. 


CEASE,  CEASE,  MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  TO 
EXPLORE. 
The  song  is  by  Dr.  Blacklock ;  I  believe,  but 
am  not  quite  certain,  that  the  air  is  his  too. 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 
This  air  was  formerly  called,  "The  bride- 
groom greets  when  the  sun  gangs  down."     The 
words  are  by  Lady  Ann  Lindsay,  of  the  Bal- 
carras  family. 


REMARKS    ON   SCOTTISH   SONG. 


517 


DONALD  AND  FLORA. 
This  is  one  of  those  fine  Gaelic  tunes,  pre- 
Berved  from  time  immemorial  in  the  Hebrides ; 
they  seem  to  be  the  ground-work  of  many  of 
our  finest  Scots  pastoral  tunes.  The  words  of 
this  song  were  written  to  commemorate  the  un- 
fortunate expedition  of  General  Burgoyne  in 
America,  in  1777. 


O  WERE  I  ON  PARNASSUS'  HILL. 
This  air  is  Oswald's ;  the  song  I  made  out  of 
compliment  to  Mrs.  Burns. 


THE  CAPTIVE  ROBIN. 
This  air  is  called  *'  Robie  donna  Gorach." 


THERE  S  A  YOUTH  IN  THIS  CITY. 
This  air  is  claimed  by  Neil  Gow,  who  calls  it 
his  lament  for  his  brother.    The  first  half-stanza 
of  the  song  is  old ;  the  rest  mine. 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 
The  first  half-stanza  of  this  song  is  old  ;  the 
rest  is  mine. 


OA'  THE  EWES  AND  THE  KNOWES. 
This  beautiful  song  is  in  true    old  Scotch 
taste,  yet  I  do  not  know  that  either  air  or  words 
were  in  print  before. 


THE  BRIDAL  0  T. 
This  song  is  the  work  of  a  Mr. 
late  schoolmaster  at  Lochlee ; 
of  a  beautiful  Scots  poem,  called  '• 
nate  Shepherdess." 


Alexander 
and  author 
The  Fortu- 


■They  say  that  Jockey  '11  speed  weel  o't, 

They  say  that  Jockey  Ml  speed  weel  o't, 
For  he  grows  brawer  ilka  day, 

I  hope  we'll  hae  a  bridal  o't : 
For  yesternight  nae  farder  gane, 

The  backhouse  at  the  side  wa'  o't, 
He  there  wi'  Meg  ^vas  mirden  seen, 

I  hope  we'll  hae  a  bridal  o't. 

An'  we  had  but  a  bridal  o't. 

An'  we  had  but  a  bridal  o't, 
»Ve'd  leave  the  rest  unto  gude  luck, 

Altho'  there  should  betide  ill  o't : 


For  bridal  days  are  merry  times. 

And  young  folks  like  the  coming  o't. 
And  scribblers  they  bang  up  their  rhymeit 

And  pipers  they  the  bumming  o't. 

The  lasses  like  a  bridal  o't, 

The  lasses  like  a  bridal  o't, 
Their  braws  maun  be  in  rank  and  file, 

Altho'  that  they  should  guide  ill  o't: 
The  boddom  o'  the  kist  is  then 

Turn'd  up  into  the  inmost  o't, 
The  end  that  held  the  kecks  sae  clean, 

Is  now  become  the  teemest  o't 

The  bangster  at  the  threshing  o't, 

The  bangster  at  the  threshing  o't, 
Afore  it  comes  is  fidgin-fain. 

And  ilka  day's  a  clashing  o't: 
He'll  sell  his  jerkin  for  a  groat, 

His  Under  for  anither  o't. 
And  e'er  he  want  to  clear  his  shot, 

His  sark'U  pay  the  tither  o't 

The  pipers  and  the  fiddlers  o't, 

The  pipers  and  the  fiddlers  o't. 
Can  smell  a  bridal  unco'  far, 

And  like  to  be  the  middlers  o't ; 
Fan  1  thick  and  threefold  they  convene. 

Ilk  ane  envies  the  tither  o't. 
And  wishes  nane  but  him  alane 

May  ever  see  anither  o't. 

Fan  they  hae  done  wi'  eating  o't, 

Fan  they  hae  done  wi'  eating  o't, 
For  dancing  they  gae  to  the  green. 

And  aiblins  to  the  beating  o't : 
He  dances  best  that  dances  fast, 

And  loups  at  ilka  reesing  o't. 
And  claps  his  hands  frae  hough  to  hough, 

And  furls  about  the  feezlngs  o't." 


TODLEN  HAME. 
Tpis  is  perhaps  the  first  bottle  song  that  evel 
was  composed. 


THE  BRAES  O*  BALLOCHMYLE. 
This  air  is  the  composition  of  my  friend 
Allan  Masterton,  in  Edinburgh.  I  composed  the 
verses  on  the  amiable  and  excellent  family  of 
Whitefoords  leaving  Ballochmyle,  when  Sir 
John's  misfortunes  had  obliged  him  to  sell  the 
estate. 


THE  RANTIN»  DOO,  THE  DADDIE  O^T. 
I  COMPOSED  this  song  pretty  early  in  life,  and 
sent  it  to  a  young  girl,  a  very  particular  ac- 
quaintance of  mine,  who  was  at  that  time  tinder 
a  cloud. 

1  Fan,  when — the  dialect  of  Ang as. 


518 


BEMARKS   ON   SCOTTISH    SONG. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  PREFERENCE. 

This  song  is  Dr.  Blacklock'*.— I  don't  know 
how  it  came  by  the  name,  but  the  oldest  appel- 
lation of  the  air  was,  ♦<  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to 
you,  my  lad." 

It  has  little  affinity  to  the  tune  commonly 
known  by  that  name. 


THE  BONIE  BANKS  OP  AYR. 

I  COMPOSED  this  song  as  I  conveyed  my  chest 
10  far  OL  ih«  road  to  Greenock,  where  I  was  to 
embark  in  a  few  days  for  Jamaica. 

I  meant  it  as  my  farewell  dirge  to  my  native 
land. 


JOHN  O'  BADENYON. 
This  excellent  song  is  the  composition  of  my 
Jrorthy  friend,  old  Skinner,  at  Linshart. 

«'  When  first  I  cam  to  be  a  man 

Of  twenty  years  or  so, 
I  thought  myself  a  handsome  youth, 

And  fain  the  world  would  know ; 
In  best  attire  I  stept  abroad, 

With  spirits  brisk  and  gay, 
And  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

Was  like  a  morn  in  May ; 
No  care  had  I  nor  fear  of  want, 

But  rambled  up  and  down, 
And  for  a  beau  I  might  have  pass'd 

In  country  or  in  town ; 
I  still  was  pleas'd  where'er  I  went, 

And  when  I  was  alone, 
I  tun'd  my  pipe  and  pleas'd  myself 

Wi'  John  o'  Badenyon. 

Now  in  the  days  of  youthful  prime 

A  mistress  I  must  find, 
For  love,  I  heard,  gave  one  an  air 

And  ev'n  improved  the  mind  : 
On  Phillis  fair  above  the  rest 

Kind  fortune  fixt  my  eyes. 
Her  piercing  beauty  struck  my  heart, 

And  she  became  my  choice ; 
To  Cupid  now  with  liearty  prayer 

I  offer'd  many  a  vow ; 
And  danc'd,  and  sung,  and  sigh'd,  and  swore, 

As  other  lovers  do ; 
But,  when  at  last  I  breath'd  my  flame, 

I  found  her  cold  as  stone ; 
I  left  the  jilt,  and  tun'd  my  pipe 

To  John  o'  Badenyon. 

When  love  had  thus  my  heart  beguil'd 

With  foolish  hopes  and  vain. 
To  friendship's  port  I  steer 'd  my  course, 

And  laugh'd  at  lover's  pain 
A  friend  I  got  by  lucky  chance 

'Twas  something  like  divine, 
A.n  honest  friend's  a  precious  gift, 

And  such  a  gift  was  mine  : 


And  now,  whatever  might  betide, 

A  happy  man  was  I, 
In  any  strait  I  knew  to  whom 

I  freely  might  apply ; 
A  strait  soon  came  :  my  friend  I  try'd ; 

He  heard,  and  spurn'd  my  moan ; 
I  hy'd  me  home,  and  tun'd  my  pipe 

To  John  o'  Badenyon. 

Methought  I  should  be  wiser  next, 

And  would  a  patriot  turn. 
Began  to  doat  on  Johnny  Wilks, 

And  cry  up  Parson  Home. 
Their  manly  spirit  I  admir'd. 

And  prais'd  their  noble  zeal. 
Who  had  with  flaming  tongue  and  pen 

Maintain'd  the  public  weal ; 
But  e'er  a  month  or  two  had  past, 

I  found  myself  betray'd, 
'Twas  self  and  party  after  all, 

For  a'  the  stir  they  made  ; 
At  last  I  saw  the  factious  knaves 

Insult  the  very  throne, 
I  curs'd  them  a',  and  tun'd  my  pipe 

To  John  o'  Badenyon." 


A  WAUKRIFE  MINNIE. 
I  PICKED  up  this  old  song  and  tune  from  a 
country  girl  in  Nithsdale. — I  never  met  with  ii 
elsewhere  in  Scotland. 

"  Whare  are  you  gaun,  my  bonie  lass, 
Whare  are  you  gaun,  my  hinnie, 
She  answer'd  me  right  saucilie, 
An  errand  for  my  minnie. 

O  whare  live  ye,  my  bonie  lass, 

O  whare  live  ye,  my  hinnie. 
By  yon  burn-side,  gin  ye  maun  ken, 

In  a  wee  house  wi'  my  minnie. 

But  I  foor  up  the  glen  at  e'en. 

To  see  my  bonie  lassie  ; 
And  lang  before  the  gray  morn  cam. 

She  was  na  hauf  sa  sacie. 

O  weary  fa'  the  waukrife  cock. 
And  the  foumart  lay  his  crawin  ! 

He  wauken'd  the  auld  wife  frae  her  sleep, 
A  wee  blink  or  the  dawin. 

An  angry  wife  I  wat  she  raise, 
And  o'er  the  bed  she  brought  her; 

And  wi'  a  mickle  hazle  rung 
She  made  her  a  weel  pay'd  dochter. 

O  fare  thee  weel,  my  bonie  lass! 

O  fare  thee  weel,  my  hinnie  ! 
Thou  art  a  gay  and  a  bonie  lass. 

But  thou  hast  a  waukrife  minnie." 


TULLOCHGORUM. 
This  first  of  songs,  is  the  master-piece  of  my 
old  friend  Skinner.     He  was  passing  the  day 


KEMARKS   ON   SCOTTISH   SONa. 


519 


at  the  town  of  Cullen,  I  think  it  was,  in  a 
friend's  house  whose  name  was  Montgomery. 
Mrs.  Montgomery  observing,  en  passant,  that  the 
beautiful  reel  of  Tullochgorum  wanted  words, 
she  begged  them  of  Mr.  Skinne",  who  gratified 
her  wishes,  and  the  wishes  of  every  Scottish 
Bong,  in  this  most  excellent  ballad. 

These  particulars  I  had  from  the   author's 
Bon,  Bishop  Skinner,  at  Aberdeen. 


FOR  A'  THAT  AND  A'  THAT. 
This  song  is  mine,  all  except  the  chorus. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 
Ramsay  here,  as  usual  with  him,  has  taken 
the  idea  of  the  song,  and  the  first  line,  from 
the  old  fragment  which  may  be  seen  in  the 
"  Museum,"  vol.  v. 


WILLIE  BREW'D  A  PECK  O'  MAUT. 
This  air  is  Masterton's;  the  song  mine. — 
The  occasion  of  it  was  this : — Mr.  W.  Nicol,  of 
the  High-School,  Edinburgh,  during  the  autumn 
vacation  being  at  MoflFat,  honest  Allan,  who  was 
at  that  time  on  a  visit  to  Dalswinton,  and  I, 
went  to  pay  Nicol  a  visit. — We  had  such  a 
joyous  meeting  that  Mr.  Masterton  and  I  agreed, 
each  in  our  own  way,  that  we  should  celebrate 
the  business. 


KILLIECRANKIE. 

The  battle  of  Killiecrankie  was  the  last  stand 
made  by  the  clans  for  James,  after  his  abdica- 
tion. Here  the  gallant  Lord  Dundee  fell  in  the 
moment  of  victory,  and  with  him  fell  the  hopes 
of  the  party.  General  Mackay,  when  he  found 
the  Highlanders  did  not  pursue  his  flying  army, 
said,  "Dundee  must  be  killed,  or  he  never 
would  have  overlooked  this  advantage."  A 
great  strne  marks  the  spot  where  Dundee  fell. 


THE  EWIE  WI'  THE  CROOKED  HORN. 
Anothbe  excellent  song  of  old  Skinner's. 


CRAIGIE-BURN  WOOD. 

It  is  remarkable  of  this  air  that  it  is  the  Con- 
ine of  that  country  where  the  greatest  part  of 


our  lowland  music  (so  far  as  from  the  title, 
words,  &c.,  we  can  localize  it)  has  been  com- 
posed. From  Craigie-burn,  near  MoflFat,  untP 
one  reaches  the  West  Highlands,  we  have 
scarcely  one  slow  air  of  any  antiquity. 

The  song  was  composed  on  a  passion  which 
a  Mr.  Gillespie,  a  particular  friend  of  mine,  had 
for  a  Miss  Lorimer,  afterwards  a  Mrs.  Whelp- 
dale.  This  young  lady  was  born  at  Craigie-burn 
Wood. — The  chorus  is  part  of  an  old  foolish 
ballad. 


FRAE  THE  FRIENDS  AND  LAND  I  LOVE. 
I  ADDED  the  four  last  lines,  by  way  of  giving 
a  turn  to  the  theme  of  the  poem,  such  tks  it  is 


HUGHIE  GRAHAM. 
There  are  several  editions  of  this  ballad. — 
This,  here  inserted,  is  from  oral  tradition  in 
Ayrshire,  where,  when  I  was  a  boy,  it  was  a 
popular  song. — It  originally  had  a  simple  old 
tune,  which  I  have  forgotten. 

"  Our  lords  are  to  the  mountains  gane, 
A  hunting  o'  the  fallow  deer, 
And  they  have  gripet  Hughie  Graham, 
For  stealing  o'  the  bishop's  mare. 

And  they  have  tied  him  hand  and  foot, 
And  led  him  up,  thro'  Stirling  town; 

The  lads  and  lasses  met  him  there, 
Cried,  Hughie  Graham,  thou  art  a  loup 

O  lowse  my  right  hand  free,  he  says. 
And  put  my  braid  sword  in  the  same ; 

He's  no  in  Stirling  town  this  day. 
Dare  tell  the  tale  to  Hughie  Graham. 

Up  then  bespake  the  brave  Whitefoord, 

As  he  sat  by  the  bishop's  knee, 
Five  hundred  white  stots  I'll  gie  you. 

If  ye'U  let  Hughie  Graham  gae  free. 

O  haud  your  tongue,  the  bishop  says, 
And  wi'  your  pleading  let  me  be; 

For  the'  ten  Grahams  were  in  his  coat, 
Hughie  Graham  this  day  shall  die. 

Up  then  bespake  the  fair  Whitefoord, 
As  she  sat  by  the  bishop's  knee ; 

Five  hundred  white  pence  TU  gie  you, 
If  ye'll  gie  Hughie  Graham  to  me. 

O  haud  your  tongue  now,  lady  fair, 
And  wi'  your  pleading  let  it  be ; 

Altho'  ten  Grahams  were  in  his  coat. 
It's  for  my  honour  he  maun  die. 

They've  ta'en  him  to  the  gallows  know*. 

Re  looked  to  the  gallows  tree. 
Yet  never  colour  left  his  cheek. 

Nor  ever  did  he  blink  his  e'<> 


520 


EEMAllKS    ON    SCOTTISH    SONG. 


At  length  he  looked  around  about, 

To  see  whatever  he  could  spy : 
And  there  he  saw  his  auld  father, 

And  he  was  weeping  bitterly. 

O  haud  your  tongue,  my  father  dear, 
And  wi'  your  weeping  let  it  be; 

Thy  weeping's  suirer  on  my  heart, 
Than  a'  that  they  can  do  to  me. 

And  ye  may  gie  my  brother  John 
My  sword  that's  bent  in  the  nrjddle  clear ; 

And  let  him  come  at  twelve  o'c'.ock, 
And  see  me  pay  the  bishop's  mare. 

And  ye  may  gie  my  brother  James 
My  sword  that's  bent  in  the  middle  brown ; 

And  bid  him  come  at  four  o'clock, 
And  see  his  brother  Hugh  cut  down. 

Remember  me  to  Maggy  my  wife, 
The  neist  time  ye  gang  o'er  the  moor, 

Tell  her  she  staw  the  bishop's  mare, 
Tell  her  she  was  the  bishop's  whore. 

And  ye  may  tell  my  kith  and  kin, 
I  never  did  disgrace  their  blood; 

And  when  they  meet  the  bishop's  cloak, 
To  mak  it  shorter  by  the  hood." 


A  SOUTHLAND  JENNY. 
This  is  a  popular  Ayrshire  song,  though  the 
aotes  were  never  taken  down  before.      It,  as 
firell  as  many  of  the  ballad  tunes  in  this  collec- 
tion, was  written  from  Mrs.  Burns's  voice. 


MY  TOCHER'S  THE  JEWEL. 
I'His  tune  is  claimed  by  Nathaniel  Gow.— It 
Is  notoriously  taken  from  "The  muckin  o'  Gor- 
die's  byre."— It  is  also  to  be  found  long  prior 
to  Nathaniel  Gow's  era,  in  Aird's  Selection  of 
Airs  and  Marches,  the  first  edition  under  the 
name  of  *'  The  Highway  to  Edinburgh." 


THEN,  QUID  WIFE,  COUNT  THE  LA  WIN'. 
The  chorus  of  this  is  part  of  an  old  song,  no 
Btanza  of  which  I  recollect. 


THERE'LL  NEVER  BE  PEACE  TILL  JAMIE 
COMES  HAME. 


I  DO  CONFESS  THOU  ART  8AE  FAIR. 
This  song  is  altered  from  a  poem  by  Sir 
Robert  Ayton,  private  secretary  to  Mary  and 
Ann,  Queens  of  Scotland, — The  poem  is  to  be 
found  in  James  Watson's  Collection  of  Scots 
Poems,  the  earliest  collection  printed  in  Scot- 
land. I  think  that  I  have  improved  the  simpli- 
city of  the  sentiments,  by  giving  them  a  Scota 
dress. 


THE  SODGER  LADDIE. 
The  first  verse  of  this  is  old ;  the  rest  is  by 
Ramsay.  The  tune  seems  to  be  the  same  with 
a  slow  air,  called  **  Jackey  Hume's  Lament" — 
or,  "  The  Hollin  Buss"— or  "  Ken  ye  what  Meg 
o'  the  Mill  has  gotten  ?" 


WHERE  WAD  BONNIE  ANNIE  LIE. 
The  old  name  of  this  tune  is, — 

"  Whare'll  our  gudeman  lie." 
A  silly  old  stanza  of  it  runs  thus — 
"  O  whare'll  our  gudeman  lie, 
Gudeman  lie,  gudeman  lie, 
O  whare'll  our  gudeman  lie. 
Till  he  shute  o'er  the  simmer? 

Up  amang  the  hen-bawks, 
The  hen-bawks,  the  hen-bawks, 

Up  amang  the  hen-bawks, 
Amang  the  rotten  timmer." 


GALLOWAY  TAM. 
I  HAVE  seen  an  interlude  (acted  at  a  wedding) 
to  this  tune,  called  "  The  Wooing  of  the  Maiden." 
These  entertainments  are  now  much  worn  out 
in  this  part  of  Scotland.  Two  are  still  retained 
in  Nithsdale,  viz.  "Silly  Pure  Auld  Glenae," 
and  this  one,  "  The  Wooing  of  the  Maiden.' 


AS  I  CAM  DOWN  BY  YON  CASTLE  WA 
This  is  a  very  popular  Ayrshire  song. 


LORD  RONALD  MY  SON. 
This  air,  a  very  favourite  one  in  Ayrshire,  i8 


Tht<j  fn«o  Jo  o *•  „    ,      ™,  i       ^"^'^^  ^'^^'  ^  "^^ry  lavourite  one  in  Ayrshire,  i8 

A  HIS  tune  IS  sometimes  called  "Therp'sfpw         -j     ^^      ■,  :  . 

.de  fellows  when  Willie's  awa."-B'    T  it!     ^"'^"^^^  *^^   ^^^^^'^^^  ''  ^°^^^^--      '^  ^^^^ 


gude  fellows  when  Willie's  awa."— But  I  never 
have  been  able  to  meet  with  anything  else  of 
ttie  song  than  the  title. 


manner  most  of  our  finest  more  modern  airs 
have  had  their  origin.  Some  early  minstrel,  or 
musical  shepherd,  composed  the  simple,  artless 
original   air;   which   being  picked   up  by  the 


BEMARKS    ON   SCOTTISH    SONG. 


521 


more  learned  musician,  took  the  improved  form 
it  bears. 


O'ER  THE  MOOR  AMANQ  THE  HEATHER. 

This  sopg  is  the  composition  of  a  Jean  Glover, 
a  girl  "who  was  not  only  a  whore,  but  also  a 
thief ;  and  in  one  or  other  character  has  visited 
most  of  the  Correction  Houses  in  the  West. 
She  was  born  I  believe  in  Kilmarnock, — I  took 
the  song  down  from  her  singing,  as  she  was 
strolling  through  the  country,  with  a  sleight-of- 
hand  blackguard. 


TO  THE  ROSE-BUD. 
This  song  is  the  composition  of  a John- 
son, a  joiner  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Belfast. 
The  tune  is  by  Oswald,  altered,  evidently,  from 
«*  Jockie's  Gray  Breeks." 


TON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS. 
This  tune  is  by  Oswald.    The  song  alludes  to 
a  part  of  my  private  history,  which  it  is  of  no 
consequence  to  the  world  to  know. 


IT  IS  NA,  JEAN,  THY  BONNIE  FACE. 
These   were   originally  English  verses: — I 
gave  them  the  Scots  dress. 


EPPIE  M'NAB. 
The  old  song  with  this  title  has  more  wit  than 
decency. 

WHA  IS  THAT  AT  MY  BOWER  DOOR. 
This  tune  is  also  known  by  the  name  of  *'  Lass 
an  I  come  near  thee."     The  words  are  mine. 


THOU  ART  GANE  AWA. 
This  tune  is  the  same  with  **  Hand  awa  frae 
me,  Donald." 


THE  TEARS  I  SHED  MUST  EVER  FALL. 

This  song  of  genius  was  composed  by  a  Miss 
Cranston.  It  wanted  four  lines,  to  make  all  the 
stanzas  suit  the  music,  which  I  added,  and  are 
the  four  first  of  the  last  stanza. 


"No  cold  approach,  no  alter'd  mien, 

Just  what  would  make  suspicion  start ; 
No  pause  the  dire  extremes  between, 
He  made  me  blest — and  broke  my  heart '" 


THE  BONIE  WEE  THING. 

Composed  on  my  little  idol  "the  charming, 
lovely  Davies." 


THE  TITHER  MORN. 
This  tune  is  originally  from  the  Highlands. 
I  have  heard  a  Gaelic  song  to  it,  which  1  was 
told  was  very  clever,  but  not  by  any  means  a 
lady's  song. 


A  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF 
HER  SON. 
This  most  beautiful  tune  is,  I  think,  the  hap- 
piest composition  of  that  bard-born  genius, 
John  Riddel,  of  the  family  of  Glencarnock,  at 
Ayr.  The  words  were  composed  to  commemo- 
rate the  much-lamented  and  premature  death 
of  James  Ferguson,  Esq.,  jun.  of  Craigdarroch. 


DAINTIE  DAVIE. 

This  song,  tradition  says,  and  the  composition 
itself  confirms  it,  was  composed  on  the  Rev. 
David  Williamson's  begetting  the  daughter  of 
Lady  Cherry  trees  with  child,  while  a  party  of 
dragoons  were  searching  her  house  to  appre- 
hend him  for  being  an  adherent  to  the  solemn 
league  and  covenant.  The  pious  woman  had 
put  a  lady's  night-cap  on  him,  and  had  laid  him 
a-bed  with  her  own  daughter,  and  passed  him 
to  the  soldiery  as  a  lady,  her  daughter's  bed- 
fellow. A  mutilated  stanza  or  two  are  to  be 
found  in  Herd's  collection,  but  the  original  song 
consists  of  five  or  six  stanzas,  and  were  their 
delicacy  equal  to  their  wit  and  humour,  they 
would  merit  a  place  in  any  collection.  The 
first  stanza  is 

«  Being  pursued  by  the  dragoons, 
Within  ray  bed  he  was  laid  down  ; 
And  weel  I  wat  he  was  worth  his  room. 
For  he  was  my  Daintie  Davie." 

Ramsay's  song,  "  Luckie  Nansy,"  though  he 
calls  it  an  old  song  with  additions,  seems  to  h« 
all  his  own  except  the  chorus: 

"  I  was  a  telling  you, 

Luckie  Nansy,  Luckie  Nanar 


522 


THE   BORDER   TOUR. 


Auld  springs  wad  ding  the  new, 
But  ye  wad  never  trow  me." 

Which  I  should  conjecture  to  be  part  of  a  song 
prior  to  the  affair  of  Williamson. 


BOB  0'  DUMBLANE. 
Ramsay,  as  usual,  has  modernized  this  song. 
The  original,  which  I  learned  on  the  spot,  from 
my  old  hostess  in  the  principal  inn  there,  is — 

«*  Lassie,  lend  me  your  braw  hemp  heckle, 
And  I'll  lend  you  ray  thripplin-karae ; 
My  heckle  is  broken,  it  canna  be  gotten. 
And  we'll  gae  dance  the  bob  o'  Dumblane. 


Twa  gaed  to  the  wood,  to  the  wood,  to  the  wood, 
Twa  gaed  to  the  wood — three  came  hame ; 

An'  it  be  na  weel  bobbit,  weel  bobbit,  weel  bobbit, 
An'  it  be  na  weel  bobbit,  we'll  bob  it  again." 

I  insert  this  song  to  introduce  the  following 
anecdote,  which  I  have  heard  well  authenti- 
cated. In  the  evening  of  the  day  of  the  battle 
of  Dumblane,  (Sheriff  Muir,)  when  the  action 
was  over,  a  Scots  officer  in  Argyll's  army, 
observed  to  His  Grace,  that  he  was  afraid  the 
rebels  would  give  out  to  the  world  that  they 
had  gotten  the  victory. — "Weel,  weel,"  returned 
his  Grace,  alluding  to  the  foregoing  ballad,  "if 
they  think  it  be  nae  weel  bobbit,  we'll  bob  it 
again." 


THE  BOEDER  TOUR. 


Left  Edinburgh  (May  6,  1787) — Lammer- 
muir-hills  miserably  dreary,  but  at  times  very 
picturesque.  Lanton-edge,  a  glorious  view  of 
the  Merse — Reach  Berrywell — old  Mr.  Ainslie 
an  Tincommon  character ; — his  hobbies,  agricul- 
ture, natural  philsopohy,  and  politics. — In  the 
first  he  is  unexceptionably  the  clearest-headed, 
best-informed  man  I  ever  met  with ;  in  the 
other  two,  very  intelligent : — As  a  man  of  busi- 
ness he  has  uncommon  merit,  and  by  fairly  de- 
serving it  has  made  a  very  decent  independence. 
Mrs.  Ainslie,  an  excellent,  sensible,  cheerful, 
amiable  old  woman. — Miss  Ainslie — her  person 
a  little  embonpoint,  but  handsome ;  her  face,  par- 
ticularly her  eyes,  full  of  sweetness  and  good 
humour — she  unites  three  qualities  rarely  to  be 
found  together;  keen,  solid  penetration;  sly, 
witty  observation  and  remark ;  and  the  gentlest, 
most  unaffected  female  modesty — Douglas,  a 
clever,  fine,  promising  young  fellow.  —  The 
family-meeting  with   their   brother;    my   com- 

1  The  author  of  that  fine  song,  «'  The  Maid  that  tends 
the  Goats." 

*  "  During  the  discourse  Burns  produced  a  neat  im- 
promptu, conveying  an  elegant  compliment  to  Miss  Ains- 
lie. Dr.  B.  had  selected  a  text  of  Scripture  that  contained 
a  heavy  denunciation  against  obstinate  sinners.  In  the 
course  of  the  sermon  Burns  observed  the  young  lady 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  Bible,  with  much  earnest- 


pagnon  de  voyage,  very  charming ;  particularly 
the  sister.  The  whole  family  remarkably  at- 
tached to  their  menials — Mrs.  A.  full  of  stories 
of  the  sagacity  and  sense  of  the  little  girl  in  the 
kitchen. — Mr.  A.  high  in  the  praises  of  an  Afri- 
can, his  house-servant — all  his  people  old  in  his 
service — Douglas's  old  nurse  came  to  Berrywell 
yesterday  to  remind  them  of  its  being  his  birth- 
day. 

A  Mr.  Dudgeon,  a  poet  at  times, •  a  worthy 
remarkable  character — natural  penetration,  a 
great  deal  of  information,  some  genius,  and  ex- 
treme modesty. 

Sunday. — Went  to  church  at  Dunse^ — Dr. 
Howmaker  a  man  of  strong  lungs  and  pretty 
judicious  remark ;  but  ill  skilled  in  propriety, 
and  altogether  unconscious  of  his  want  of  it. 

Monday. — Coldstream — ^went  over  to  England 
— Cornhill — glorious  river  Tweed — clear  and 
majestic — fine  bridge.    Dine  at  Coldstream  with 

ness,  in  search  of  the  text.  He  took  out  a  slip  of  paper, 
and  with  a  pencil  wrote  the  following  lines  on  it,  whicfc 
he  immediately  presented  to  her. 

*  Fair  maid,  you  need  not  take  the  hint, 
Nor  idle  texts  pursue  : — 
'Twas  guilty  sinners  that  he  iroant, — 
Not  angels  such  as  you." 

Cbomsk. 


THE   BORDER    TOUR. 


523 


Mr.  Ainslie  and  Mr.  Foreman — beat  Mr.  F 

in  a  dispute  about  Voltaire.  Tea  at  Lenel 
House  with  Mr.  Brydone — Mr.  Brydone  a  most 
excellent  heart,  kind,  joyous,  and  benevolent ; 
but  a  good  deal  of  the  French  indiscriminate 
complaisance — from  his  situation  past  and  pre- 
sent, an  admirer  of  everything  that  bears  a 
gplendid  title,  or  that  possesses  a  large  estate — 
Mrs.  Brydone  a  most  elegant  woman  in  her  per- 
Bon  and  manners;  the  tones  of  her  voice  re- 
markably sweet — my  reception  extremely  flat- 
tering— sleep  at  Coldstream. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast  at  Kelso — charming  situ- 
ation of  Kelso — fine  bridge  over  the  Tweed — 
enchanting  views  and  prospects  on  both  sides 
of  the  river,  particularly  the  Scotch  side ;  in- 
troduced to  Mr.  Scott  of  the  Royal  Bank— an 
excellent,  modest  fellow — fine  situation  of  it — 
ruins  of  Roxburgh  Castle — a  holly-bush,  grow- 
ing where  James  II.  of  Scotland  was  acciden- 
tally killed  by  the  bursting  of  a  cannon.  A 
small  old  religious  ruin,  and  a  fine  old  garden 
planted  by  the  religious,  rooted  out  and  destroyed 
by  an  English  hottentot,  a  maitre  d'hotel  of  the 
duke's,  a  Mr.  Cole — climate  and  soil  of  Berwick- 
shire, and  even  Roxburghshire,  superior  to 
Ayrshire — bad  roads.  Turnip  and  sheep  hus- 
bandry, their  great  improvements — Mr.  M'- 
Dowal,  at  Caverton  Mill,  a  friend  of  Mr.  Ains- 
lie's,  with  whom  I  dined  to-day,  sold  his  sheep, 
ewe  and  lamb  together,  at  two  guineas  a  piece 
— wash  their  sheep  before  shearing — seven  or 
eight  pounds  of  washen  wool  in  a  fleece — low 
markets,  consequently  low  rents  —  fine  lands 
not  above  sixteen  shillings  a  Scotch  acre — mag- 
nificence of  farmers  and  farm-houses— come  up 
Teviot  and  up  Jed  to  Jedburgh  to  lie,  and  so 
wish  myself  a  good  night. 

Wednesday. — Breakfast  with  Mr. in  Jed- 
burgh— a  squabble  between  Mrs. ,  a  crazed, 

talkative  slattern,  and  a  sister  of  hers,  an  old 
maid,  respecting  a  relief  minister — Miss  gives 
Madam  the  lie ;  and  Madam,  by  way  of  revenge, 
upbraids  her  that  she  laid  snares  to  entangle 
the  said  minister,  then  a  widower,  in  the  net 
of  matrimony — go  about  two  miles  out  of  Jed- 
burgh to  a  roup  of  parks — meet  a  polite,  sol- 
dier-like gentleman,  a  Captain  Rutherford,  who 
had  been  many  years  through  the  wilds  of 
America,  a  prisoner  among  the  Indians — charm- 
ing, romantic  situation  of  Jedburgh,  with  gar- 
dens, orchards,  &c.,  intermingled  among  the 


houses — fine  old  ruins — a  once  magnificent  ca- 
thedral, and  strong  castle.  All  the  towns  here 
have  the  appearance  of  old,  rude  grandeur,  but 
the  people  extremely  idle — Jed  a  fine  romantic 
little  -river. 

Dine  with  Capt.  Rutherford — the  Captain  a 
polite  fellow,  fond  of  money  in  his  farming 
way ;  showed  a  particular  respect  to  my  I  ard- 
ship — his  lady  exactly  a  proper  matrimonial 
second  part  for  him.  Miss  Rutherford  a  beau- 
tiful girl,  but  too  far  gone  woman  to  expose  so 
much  of  a  fine  swelling  bosom — her  face  very 
fine. 

Return  to  Jedburgh — walk  up  Jed  with  some 
ladies  to  be  shown  Love-lane  and  Blackburn, 
two  fairy  scenes.  Introduced  to  Mr.  Potts, 
writer,  a  very  clever  fellow ;  and  Mr.  Somer- 
ville,  the  clergyman  of  the  place,  a  man  and  a 
gentleman,  but  sadly  addicted  to  punning. — 

The  walking  party  of  ladies,   Mrs.  and 

Miss her  sister,  before  mentioned. — N.B. 

These  two  appear  still  more  comfortably  ugly 
and  stupid,  and  bore  me  most  shockingly.  Two 

Miss ,  tolerably  agreeable.     Miss  Hope,  a 

tolerably  pretty  girl,  fond  of  laughing  and  fun. 
Miss  Lindsay,  a  good-humoured,  amiable  girl ; 
rather  short  et  embonpoint,  but  handsome,  and 
extremely  graceful — beautiful  hazel  eyes,  full 
of  spirit,  and  sparkling  with  delicious  moisture 
— an  engaging  face — un  tout  ensemble  that  speaks 
her  of  the  first  order  of  female  minds  —  her 
sister,  a  bonnie,  strappan,  rosy,  sonsie  lass. 
Shake  myself  loose,  after  several  unsuccessful 
efforts,  of  Mrs. and  Miss ,  and  some- 
how or  other,  get  hold  of  Miss  Lindsay's  arm. 
My  heart  is  thawed  into  melting  pleasure  after 
being  so  long  frozen  up  in  the  Greenland  bay 
of  indifference,  amid  the  noise  and  nonsense  of 
Edinburgh.  Miss  seems  very  well  pleased  with 
my  hardship's  distinguishing  her,  and  after 
some  slight  qualms,  which  I  could  easily  mark, 
she  sets  the  titter  round  at  defiance,  and  kindlj 
allows  me  to  keep  my  hold ;  and  when  parted 
by  the  ceremony  of  my  introduction  to  Mr 
Somcrville,  she  met  me  half,  to  resume  my  situ- 
ation.  Nota  Bene — The  poet  within  a  point 

and  a  half  of  being  d-mnably  in  love — I  am 
afraid  my  bosom  is  still  nearly  as  much  tinder 
as  ever. 

The  old  cross-grained,  whiggish,  ugly,  slan- 
derous Miss ,  with  all  the  poisonous  spleen 

of  a  disappointed,  ancient  maid,  stops  me  very 
unseasonably  to  ease  her  bursting  breast,  by 


524 


THE   BORDER  TOUR 


falling  abusively  foul  on  the  Miss  Lindsays,  par- 
ticularly on  my  Dulcinea;  —  I  hardly  refrain 
from  cursing  her  to  her  face  for  daring  to  mouth 
her  calumnious  slander  on  one  of  the  finest 
pieces  of  the  workmanship  of  Almighty  ijxcel- 

lence !     Sup   at   Mr.  's ;    vexed   that   the 

Miss  Lindsays  are  not  of  the  supper-party,  as 

they  only  are  wanting.     Mrs. and  Miss 

still  improve  infernally  on  my  hands. 

Set  out  next  morning  for  Wauchope,  the  seat 
of  my  correspondent,  Mrs.  Scott — breakfast  by 
the  way  with  Dr.  Elliot,  an  agreeable,  good- 
hearted,  climate-beaten  old  veteran,  in  the 
medical  line;  now  retired  to  a  romantic,  but 
rather  moorish  place,  on  the  banks  of  the  Roole 
— he  accompanies  us  almost  to  Wauchope — we 
traverse  the  country  to  the  top  of  Bochester, 
the  scene  of  an  old  encampment,  and  Woolee 
Hill. 

Wauchope — Mr.  Scott  exactly  the  figure  and 
face  commonly  given  to  Sancho  Panca — very 
shrewd  in  his  farming  matters,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  stumbles  on  what  may  be  called  a 
strong  thing  rather  than  a  good  thing.  Mrs. 
Scott  all  the  sense,  taste,  intrepidity  of  face, 
and  bold,  critical  decision,  which  usually  dis- 
tinguish female  authors.— Sup  with  Mr.  Potts 
— agreeable  party, — Breakfast  next  morning 
with  Mr.  Somerville— the  bruit  of  Miss  Lindsay 
and  my  hardship,  by  means  of  the  invention 

and  malice  of  Miss .    Mr,  Somerville  sends 

to  Dr.  Lindsay,  begging  him  and  family  to 
breakfast  if  convenient,  but  at  all  events  to 
send  Miss  Lindsay;  accordingly  Miss  Lindsay 
only  comes.— I  find  Miss  Lindsay  would  soon 
play  the  devil  with  me — I  met  with  some  little 
flattering  attentions  from  her.  Mrs,  Somerville 
an  excellent,  motherly,  agreeable  woman,  and  a 

fine  family. — Mr.  Ainslie,  and  Mrs.  S ,  junrs,, 

with  Mr. ,  Miss  Lindsay,  and  myself,  go  to 

Bee  Esther,  a  very  remarkable  woman  for  recit- 
ing poetry  of  all  kinds,  and  sometimes  making 
Scotch  doggerel  herself— she  can  repeat  by 
heart  almost  everything  she  has  ever  read, 
particularly  Pope's  Homer  from  end  to  end- 
has  studied  Euclid  by  herself,  and  in  short,  is 
a  woman  of  very  extraordinary  abilities,— On 
conversing  with  her  I  find  her  fully  equal  to 
the  character  given  of  her.'— She  is  very  much 


'  "  This  extraordinary  woman  then  moved  in  a  very 
'tumble  walk  of  life:-the  wife  of  a  common  working 
gardener.  She  is  still  living,  and,  if  I  am  rightly  in- 
formed Her  time  is  principally  occupied  in  hek  attentions 


flattered  that  I  send  for  her,  and  that  she  seef 
a  poet  who  has  put  out  a  book,  as  she  says. — 
She  is,  among  other  things,  a  great  florist — and 
is  rather  past  the  meridian  of  once  celebrated 
beauty, 

I  walk  in  Esther's  garden  with  Miss  Lindsay, 
and  after  some  little  chit-chat  of  the  tender 
kind,  I  presented  her  with  a  proof  print  of  my 
Nob,  which  she  accepted  with  something  more 
tender  than  gratitude.    She  told  me  many  little 

stories  which  Miss had  retailed  concerning 

her  and  me,  with  prolonging  pleasure — God 
bless  her !  Was  waited  on  by  the  magistrates, 
and  presented  with  the  freedom  of  the  burgh. 

Took  farewell  of  Jedburgh,  with  some  melan- 
choly, disagreeable  sensations. — Jed,  pure  be 
thy  crystal  streams,  and  hallowed  thy  sylvan 
banks !  Sweet  Isabella  Lindsay,  may  peace 
dwell  in  thy  bosom,  uninterrupted,  except  by 
the  tumultuous  throbbings  of  rapturous  love  ! 
That  love-kindling  eye  must  beam  on  another, 
not  on  me ;  that  graceful  form  must  bless  an- 
other's arms ;  not  mine  ! 

Kelso,  Dine  with  the  farmers'  club — all 
gentlemen,  talking  of  high  matters— each  of 
them  keeps  a  hunter  from  thirty  to  fifty  pounds 
value,  and  attends  the  fox-huntings  in  the  coun- 
try— go  out  with  Mr.  Ker,  one  of  the  club,  and 
a  friend  of  Mr,  Ainslie's,  to  lie — Mr.  Ker  a  most 
gentlemanly,  clever,  handsome  fellow,  a  widower 
with  some  fine  children — his  mind  and  manner 
astonishingly  like  my  dear  old  friend  Robert 
Muir,  in  Kilmarnock — everything  in  Mr,  Ker's 
most  elegant — he  off'ers  to  accompany  me  in  my 
English  tour.  Dine  with  Sir  Alexander  Don — 
a  pretty  clever  fellow,  but  far  from  being  a 
match  fbr  his  divine  lady. — A  very  wet  day 
*  *  * — Sleep  at  Stodrig  again  ;  and  set  out  for 
Melrose — visit  Dryburgh,  a  tine  old  ruined  ab- 
bey— still  bad  weather — cross  Leader,  and  come 
up  Tweed  to  Melrose — dine  there,  and  visit  that 
far-famed,  glorious  ruin — come  to  Selkirk,  up 
Ettrick  ;  the  whole  country  hereabout,  both  on 
Tweed  and  Ettrick,  remarkably  stony, 

Monday, — Come  to  Inverleithing,  a  famous 
shaw,  and  in  the  vicinity  of  the  palace  of  Tra- 
quair,  where  having  dined,  and  drank  some 
Galloway-whey,  I  here  remain  till  to-morrow — 


to  a  little  day-school,  which  not  being  sufficient  for  he^ 
subsistence,  she  is  obliged  to  solicit  the  charity  of  hei 
benevolent  neighbours.  *  Ah,  who  would  love  thi 
lyre  I'  " — Cromek, 


THE   BORDER   TOUR. 


523 


Baw  Elibanks  and  Elibraes,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Tweed. 

Tuesday, — Drank  tea  yesternight  at  Pirn,  with 
Mr.  Horseburgh.— Breakfasted  to-day  with  Mr. 
Ballantyne  of  Hollo wlee — Proposal  for  a  four- 
horse  team  to  consist  of  Mr.  Scott  of  Wauchope, 
Fittieland :  Logan  of  Logan,  Fittiefurr :  Ballan- 
tyne of  HoUowlee,  Forewynd :  Horsburgh  of 
Horsburgh. — Dine  at  a  country  inn,  kept  by  a 
miller,  in  Earlston,  the  birth-place  and  residence 
of  the  celebrated  Thomas  a  Rhymer — saw  the 
ruins  of  his  castle — come  to  Berrywell. 

Wednesday. — Dine  at  Dunse  with  the  farmers' 
club-company — impossible  to  do  them  justice — 
Rev,  Mr.  Smith  a  famous  punster,  and  Mr. 
Meikle  a  celebrated  mechanic,  and  inventor  of 
the  threshing-mills. — Thursday,  breakfast  at 
Berrywell,  and  walk  into  Dunse  to  see  a  famous 
knife  made  by  a  cutler  there,  and  to  be  pre- 
Bented  to  an  Italian  prince. — A  pleasant  ride 
with  my  friend  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie,  and  his 
sister,  to  Mr.  Thomson's,  a  man  who  has  newly 
commenced  farmer,  and  has  married  a  Miss 
Patty  Grieve,  formerly  a  flame  of  Mr.  Robert 
Ainslie's. — Company — Miss  Jacky  Grieve,  an 
amiable  sister  of  Mrs.  Thomson's,  and  Mr.  Hood, 
an  honest,  worthy,  facetious  farmer,  in  the 
neighbourhood. 

Friday. — Ride  to  Berwick — An  idle  town, 
rudely  picturesque. — Meet  Lord  Errol  in  walk- 
ing round  the  walls. — His  lordship's  flattering 
notice  of  me. — Dine  with  Mr.  Clunzie,  mer- 
chant— nothing  particular  in  company  or  con- 
versation— Come  up  a  bold  shore,  and  over  a 
wild  country  to  Eyemouth — sup  and.  sleep  at 
Mr.  Grieve's. 

Saturday. — Spend  the  day  at  Mr.  Grieve's — 
made  a  royal  arch  mason  of  St.  Abb's  Lodge. » 
—Mr.  William  Grieve,  the  oldest  brother,  a 
joyous,  warm-hearted,  jolly,  clever  fellow — 
takes  a  hearty  glass,  and  sings  a  good  song. — 
Mr.  Robert,  his  brother,  and  partner  in  trade, 
a  good  fellow,  but  says  little.    Take  a  sail  after 

I  The  entry  made  on  this  occasion  in  the  Lodge-books 
»f  St.  Abb's  is  honourable  to 

«  The  brethren  of  the  mystic  level." 

«'  Eyemouth,  \Qth  May,  1787. 
<  \T  a  general  encampment  held  this  day,  the  follow- 
mg  Drethren  were  made  roynl  arch  masons,  viz.  Robert 
Burns,  from  the  Lodge  of  St    James's,  Tarbolton,  Ayr- 
shire, and  Robert  Ainslie,  from  the  Lodge  of  St.  Luke's, 


dinner. 


Fishing  of  all  kinds  pays  tithes  al 
Eyemouth. 

Sunday. — A  Mr.  Robinson,  brewer  at  Ednam, 
sets  out  with  ub  to  Dunbar. 

The  Miss  Grieves  very  good  girls. — My  bard- 
ship's  heart  got  a  brush  from  Miss  Betsey. 

Mr.  William  Grieve's  attachment  to  the  fa- 
mily-circle, so  fond,  that  when  he  is  out,  which 
by  the  bye  is  often  the  case,  he  cannot  go  to 
bed  till  he  see  if  all  his  sisters  are  sleeping 

well Pass  the  famous  Abbey  of  Colding- 

ham,  and  Pease-bridge. — Call  at  Mr.  Sheriff's 
where  Mr.  A.  and  I  dine. — Mr.  S.  talkative  and 
conceited.  I  talk  of  love  to  Nancy  the  whole 
evening,  while  her  brother  escorts  home  some 
companions  like  himself. — Sir  James  Hall  of 
Dunglass,  having  heari  of  my  being  in  the 
neighbourhood,  comes  to  Mr.  SheriflTs  to  break- 
fast— takes  me  to  see  his  fine  scenery  on  the 
stream  of  Dunglass — Dunglass  the  most  roman- 
tic, sweet  place  I  ever  saw — Sir  James  and  his 
lady  a  pleasant  happy  couple. — He  points  out 
a  walk  for  which  he  has  an  uncommon  respect, 
as  it  was  made  by  an  aunt  of  his,  to  whom  he 
owes  much. 

Miss will  accompany  me  to  Dunbar,  by 

way  of  making  a  parade  of  me  as  a  sweetheart 
of  hers,  among  her  relations.  She  mounts  an 
old  cart-horse,  as  huge  and  as  lean  as  a  house ; 
a  rusty*  old  side-saddle  without  girth,  or  stir- 
rup, but  fastened  on  with  an  old  pillion-girth — 
herself  as  fine  as  hands  could  make  her,  in 
cream-coloured  riding  clothes,  hat  and  feather, 
&c. — I,  ashamed  of  my  situation,  ride  like  the 
devil,  and  almost  shake  her  to  pieces  on  old 
Jolly — get  rid  of  her  by  refusing  to  call  at  her 
uncle's  with  her. 

Past  through  the  most  glorious  corn-country 
I  ever  saw,  till  I  reach  Dunbar,  a  neat  little 
town. — Dine  with  Provost  Fall,  an  eminent 
merchant,  and  most  respectable  character,  but 
undescribable,  as  he  exhibits  no  marked  traits. 
Mrs.  Fall,  a  genius  in  painting;  fully  more 
clever  in  the  fine  arts  and  sciences  than  my 
friend  Lady  Wauchope,  without  her  consummate 

Edinburgh,  by  James  Carmichael,  Wm.  Gnevs.  Daniel 
Dow,  John  Clay,  Robert  Grieve,  &c.  &c.  Robert  Ainslie 
paid  one  guinea  admission  dues  ;  but  on  account  of  R 
Bums's  remarkable  poetical  genius,  the  encampment 
unanimously  agreed  to  admit  him  gratis,  Hud  considered 
tliemselves  honoured  by  having  a  man  of  such  shining 
abilities  for  one  of  their  companions." 
Extracted  from  the  Minute  Book  of  the  Lodge  by 

Thomas  Bowaoj.. 


523 


THE   BORDER   TOUR. 


assurance  of  her  own  abilities. — Call  with  Mr. 
Robinson  (-«ho,  by  the  bye,  I  find  to  be  a 
worthy,  much  respected  man,  very  modest; 
warm,  social  heart,  which  with  less  good  sense 
than  his  would  be  perhaps  with  the  children  of 
prim  precision  and  pride,  rather  inimical  to  that 
respect  which  is  man's  due  from  man)  with  him 
I  call  on  Miss  Clarke,  a  maiden  in  the  Scotch 
phrase,  "  Quid  enough,  but  no  brent  new:''  a  clever 
woman,  with  tolerable  pretensions  to  remark 
and  wit ;  while  time  had  blown  the  blushing 
bud  of  bashful  modesty  into  the  flower  of  easy 
confidence.  She  wanted  to  see  what  sort  of 
raree  show  an  author  was  ;  and  to  let  him  know, 
that  though  Dunbar  was  but  a  little  town,  yet 
it  was  not  destitute  of  people  of  parts. 

Breakfast  next  morning  at  Skateraw,  at  Mr- 
Lee's,  a  farmer  of  great  note. — Mr.  Lee,  an  ex- 
cellent, hospitable,  social  fellow,  rather  oldish ; 
warm-hearted  and  chatty — a  most  judicious, 
sensible  farmer.  Mr.  Lee  detains  me  till  next 
morning. — Company  at  dinner. — ^My  Rev.  ac- 
quaintance Dr.  Bowmaker,  a  reverend,  rattling 
old  fellow. — Two  sea  lieutenants ;  a  cousin  of 
the  landlord's,  a  fellow  whose  looks  are  of  that 
kind  whi-ch  deceived  me  in  a  gentleman  at 
Kelso,  and  has  often  deceived  me :  a  goodly 
handsome  figure  and  face,  which  incline  one  to 
give  them  credit  for  parts  which  they  have  not. 
Mr.  Clarke,  a  much  cleverer  fellow,  but  whose 
looks  a  little  cloudy,  and  his  appearance  rather 
ungainly,  with  an  every-day  observer  may  pre- 
judice the  opinion  against  him. — Dr.  Brown,  a 
medical  young  gentleman  from  Dunbar,  a  fellow 
whose  face  and  manners  are  open  and  engaging. 
— Leave  Skateraw  for  Dunse  next  day,  along 

with  collector  ,  a  lad  of  slender  abilities 

and  bashfully  diflSdent  to  an  extreme. 

Found  Miss  Ainslie,  the  amiable,  the  sen- 
sible, the  good-humoured,  the  sweet  Miss  Ains- 
lie, all  alone  at  Berrywell. — Heavenly  powers, 
who  know  the  weakness  of  human  hearts,  sup- 
port mine !  What  happiness  must  I  see  only  to 
remind  me  that  I  cannot  enjoy  it ! 

Lammer-muir  Hills,  from  East  Lothian  to 
I>unse,  very  wild.— Dine  with  the  farmer's  club 
at  Kelso.  Sir  John  Hume  and  Mr.  Lumsden 
there,  but  nothing  worth  remembrance  when 
the  following  circumstance  is  considered — I 
walk  into  Dunse  before  dinner,  and  out  to 
Berrywell  in  the  evening  with  Miss  Ainslie — 
how  well-bred, J  how  frank,  how  good  she  is ! 
Charming  Rachael !  may  thy  bosom  never  be 


wrung  by  the  evils  of  this  life  of  sorrows,  or  by 
the  villany  of  this  world's  sons  ! 

Thursday. — Mr.  Ker  and  I  set  out  to  dine  at 
Mr.  Hood's  on  our  way  to  England. 

I  am  taken  extremely  ill  with  strong  feverish 
symptoms,  and  take  a  servant  of  Mr.  Hood's  to 
watch  me  all  night — embittering  remorse  scares 
my  fancy  at  the  gloomy  forebodings  of  death. — 
I  am  determined  to  live  for  the  future  in  such  a 
manner  as  not  to  be  scared  at  the  approach  of 
death — I  am  sure  I  could  meet  him  with  indif- 
ference, but  for  *'  The  something  beyond  the 
grave." — Mr.  Hood  agrees  to  accompany  us  to 
England  if  we  will  wait  till  Sunday. 

Friday. — I  go  with  Mr.  Hood  to  see  a  roup  of 
an  unfortunate  farmer's  stock — rigid  economy, 
and  decent  industry,  do  you  preserve  me  from 
being  the  principal  dramatis  persona  in  such  a 
scene  of  horror. 

Meet  my  good  old  friend  Mr.  Ainslie,  who 
calls  on  Mr.  Hood  in  the  evening  to  take  fare- 
well of  my  hardship.  This  day  I  feel  myself 
warm  with  sentiments  of  gratitude  to  the  Great 
Preserver  of  men,  who  has  kindly  restored  me 
to  health  and  strength  once  more. 

A  pleasant  walk  with  my  young  friend  Dou- 
glas Ainslie,  a  sweet,  modest,  clever  young 
fellow. 

Sunday,  21th  May. — Cross  Tweed,  and  traverse 
the  moors  through  a  wild  country  till  I  reach 
Alnwick — Alnwick  Castle  a  seat  of  the  Duke  of 
Northumberland,  furnished  in  a  most  princely 
manner. — A  Mr.  Wilkin,  agent  of  His  Grace's, 
shows  us  the  house  and  policies.  Mr.  Wilkin, 
a  discreet,  sensible,  ingenious  man. 


•Come,  still  through  by-ways,  to 
Warkworth,  where  we  dine. — Hermitage  and 
old  castle.  Warkworth  situated  very  pictu- 
resque, with  Coquet  Island,  a  small  rocky  spot, 
the  seat  of  an  old  monastery,  facing  it  a  little 
in  the  sea ;  and  the  small  but  romantic  river 
Coquet,  running  through  it. — Sleep  at  Morpeth, 
a  pleasant  enough  little  town,  and  on  next  day 
to  Newcastle. — Meet  with  a  very  agreeable,  sen- 
sible fellow,  a  Mr.  Chattox,  who  shows  us  a 
great  many  civilities,  and  who  dines  and  sup^ 
with  us. 

Wednesday. — Left  Newcastle  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  rode  over  a  fine  country  to  Hexham  to 
breakfast — from  Hexham  to  Wardrue,  the  cele 
brated  Spa,  where  we  slept. — Thursday — reach 


i 


THE   HIOHLAND    TOUR. 


527 


Longtown  to  dine,  and  p  art  there  with  my  good 
friends  Messrs.  Hood  and  Eer — A  hiring  day  in 
Longtown — I  am  uncommonly  happy  to  see  so 
many  young  folks  enjoying  life.  —  I  come  to 
Carlisle. — (Meet  a  strange  enough  romantic  ad- 
venture by  the  way,  in  falling  in  with  a  girl  and 
her  married  sister — the  girl,  after  some  over- 
tures of  gallantry  on  my  side,  sees  me  a  little 
cut  with  the  bottle,  and  offers  to  take  me  in  for 
a  Gretna-Green  affair. — I,  not  being  such  a  gull, 
as  she  imagines,  make  an  appointment  with 
her,  by  way  of  vive  la  bagatelle,  to  hold  a  con- 
ference on  it  when  we  reach  town. — I  meet  her 


in  town  and  give  her  a  brush  of  caressing,  and 
a  bottle  of  cider ;  but  finding  herself  un  pen 
trompi  in  her  man  she  sheers  off.)  Next  day  I 
meet  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Mitchell,  and  walk 
with  him  round  the  town  and  its  environs,  and 
through  his  printing-works,  &c. — four  or  five 
hundred  people  employed,  many  of  them  women 
and  children. — Dine  with  Mr.  Mitchell,  and 
leave  Carlisle. — Come  by  the  coast  to  Annan. 
— Overtaken  on  the  way  by  a  curious  old  fish 
of  a  shoemaker,  and  miner,  from  Cumberland 
mines. 

[^Here  the  manuscript  abruptly  terminaies.'\ 


THE   HIGHLAND   TOUR. 


25th  August,  1787. 
I  LEAVE  Edinburgh  for  a  northern  tour,  in 
company  with  my  good  friend  Mr.  Nicol,  whose 
originality  of  humour  promises  me  much  enter- 
tainment. —  Linlithgow  —  a  fertile  improved 
country — West  Lothian.  The  more  elegance 
and  luxury  among  the  farmers,  I  always  observe 
in  equal  proportion,  the  rudeness  and  stupidity 
of  the  peasantry.  This  remark  I  have  made  all 
over  the  Lothians,  Merse,  Roxburgh,  &c.  For 
this,  among  other  reasons,  I  think  that  a  man 
of  romantic  taste,  a  "  Man  of  Feeling,"  will  be 
better  pleased  with  the  poverty,  but  intelligent 
minds  of  the  peasantry  in  Ayrshire  (peasantry 
they  are  all  below  the  justice  of  peace)  than 
the  opulence  of  a  club  of  Merse  farmers,  when 
at  the  same  time,  he  considers  the  vandalism 
of  their  plough-folks,  &c.  I  carry  this  idea  so 
far,  that  an  unenclosed,  half  improven  country 
is  to  me  actually  more  agreeable,  and  gives  me 
more  pleasure  as  a  prospect,  than  a  country 
cultivated  like  a  garden.— Soil  about  Linlith- 
gow light  and  thin. — The  town  carries  the  ap- 
pearance of  rude,  decayed  grandeur — charming- 
ly rural,  retired  situation.  The  old  royal  palace 
a  tolerably  fine,  but  melancholy  ruift — sweetly 
situated  on  a  small  elevation,  by  the  brink  of  a 
loch.  Shown  the  room  where  the  beautiful, 
injured  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  was  born — a  pretty 
food  old  Gothic  church.     The  infamous  stool 


of  repentance  standing,  in  the  old  Romish  way, 
on  a  lofty  situation. 

What  a  poor  pimping  business  is  a  Presbyte- 
rian place  of  worship;  dirty,  narrow,  and 
squalid ;  stuck  in  a  corner  of  old  popish  gran 
deur  such  as  Linlithgow,  and  much  more,  Mel- 
rose !  Ceremony  and  show,  if  judiciously  thrown 
in,  absolutely  necessary  for  the  bulk  of  man- 
kind, both  in  religious  and  civil  matters. — Dine, 
— Go  to  my  friend  Smith's  at  Avon  printfield- 
find  nobody  but  Mrs.  Miller,  an  agreeable,  sen- 
sible, modest,  good  body  ;  as  useful,  but  not  so 
ornamental  as  Fielding's  Miss  Western — not 
rigidly  polite  d,  la  />anfaM,but  easy,  hospitable, 
and  housewifely. 

An  old  lady  from  Paisley,  a  Mrs.  Lawson, 
whom  I  promised  to  call  for  in  Paisley — like  old 

lady  W ,  and   still  more  like  Mrs.   C , 

her  conversation  is  pregnant  with  strong  sense 
and  just  remark,  but  like  them,  a  certain  air  of 
self-importance  and  a  duresse  in  the  eye,  seem 
to  indicate,  as  the  Ayrshire  wife  observed  of  her 
cow,  that  **  she  had  a  mind  o'  her  ain." 

Pleasant  view  of  Dunfermline  and  the  rest  of 
the  fertile  coast  of  Fife,  as  we  go  down  to  that 
dirty,  ugly  place,  Borrowstones — see  a  horse- 
race and  call  on  a  friend  of  Mr.  Nicol's,  a  Bailie 
Cowan,  of  whom  I  know  too  little  to  attempt 
his  portrait — Come  through  the  rich  carsc  of 
Falkirk  %z   pass  the  night.     Falkirk  nothing 


528 


THE   HIGHLAND    TOUR. 


remarkable  except  the  tomb  of  Sir  John  the 
Graham,  over  which,  in  the  succeseion  of  time, 
four  stones  have  been  placed. — Camelon,  the 
ancient  metropolis  of  the  Picts,  now  a  small  vil- 
lage in  the  neighbourhood  of  Falkirk. — Cross  the 
grand  canal  to  Carron. — Come  past  Larbert  and 
admire  a  fine  monument  of  cast-iron  erected  by 
Mr.  Bruce,  the  African  traveller,  to  his  wife. 

Pass  Dunipace,  a  place  laid  out  with  fine 
taste  —  a  charming  amphitheatre  bounded  by 
Denny  village,  and  pleasant  seats  down  the  way 
to  Dunnipace. — The  Carron  running  down  the 
bosom  of  the  whole  makes  it  one  of  the  most 
charming  little  prospects  I  have  seen. 

Dine  at  Auchinbowie — Mr.  Monro  an  excel- 
lent, worthy  old  man — Miss  Monro  an  amiable, 
sensible,  sweet  young  woman,  much  resembling 
Mrs.  Grierson.  Come  to  Banuockburn — Shown 
the  old  house  where  James  III.  finished  so  tra- 
gically his  unfortunate  life.  The  field  of  Ban- 
nockburn — the  hole  where  glorious  Bruce  set 
his  standard.  Here  no  Scot  can  pass  unin- 
terested.—  I  fancy  to  myself  that  I  see  my 
gallant,  heroic  countrymen  coming  o'er  the  hill 
and  down  upon  the  plunderers  of  their  coun- 
try, the  murderers  of  their  fathers ;  noble  re- 
venge, and  just  hate,  glowing  in  every  vein, 
striding  more  and  more  eagerly  as  they  approach 
the  oppressive,  insulting,  blood-thirsty  foe!  1 
see  them  meet  in  gloriously  triumphant  congra- 
tulation on  the  victorious  field,  exulting  in  their 
heroic  royal  leader,  and  rescued  liborty  and  in- 
dependence! Come  to  Stirling.— Monday  go  to 
Harvieston.  Go  to  see  Caudron  linn,  and 
Rumbling  brig,  and  Diel's  mill.  Return  in  the 
evening.  Supper — Messrs.  Doig,  the  school- 
master; Bell;  and  Captain  Forrester  of  the 
castle — Doig  a  queerish  figure,  and  something 
of  a  pedant — Bell  a  joyous  fellow,  who  sings  a 
good  song. — Forrester  a  merry,  swearing  kind 
of  man,  with  a  dash  of  the  sodger. 

Tuesday  itfom%.  —  Breakfast  with  Captain 
Forrester— Ochel   Hills— Devon  River— Forth 

1  Another  northern  bard  has  sketched  this  eminent 
oiaBician — 
**  Th*  blythe  Strathspey  springs  up,  reminding  some 

Of  uights  when  Gow's  old  arm,  (nor  old  the  tale,) 

Unceasing,  save  when  reeking  cans  went  round. 

Made  heart  and  heel  leap  light  as  bounding  roe. 

Alas !  no  more  shall  we  behold  that  look 

So  venerable,  yet  so  blent  with  mirth, 

And  festive  joy  sedate ;  that  ancient  garb 

Unvaried,— tartan  hose,  and  bonnet  blue  ! 

No  more  shall  Beauty's  partial  eye  draw  forth 

The  lull  intoxication  of  his  strain. 


and  Tieth — Allan  River — Strathallan,  a  fine 
country,  but  little  improved — Cross  Earn  tc 
CriefF — Dine  and  go  to  Arbruchil — cold  reception 
at  Arbruchil — a  most  romantically  pleasant  ride 
up  Earn,  by  Auchtertyre  and  Comrie  to  Arbru- 
chil— Sup  at  CriefF. 

Wednesday  Morning.  —  Leave  Crieflf —  Glen 
Amond — Amond  river — Ossian's  grave — Loch 
Fruoch — Glenquaich — Landlord  and  landlady 
remarkable  characters — Taymouth  described  in 
rhyme — Meet  the  Hon.  Charles  Townshend. 

Thursday.  —  Come  down  Tay  to  Dunk  eld — 
Glenlyon  House— Lyon  River — Druid's  Temple 
— three  circles  of  stones — the  outer-most  sunk 
— the  second  has  thirteen  stones  remaining — 
the  innermost  has  eight — two  large  detached 
ones  like  a  gate,  to  the  south-east — Say  prayers 
in  it — Pass  Taybridge — Aberfeldy — described 
in  rhyme — Castle  Menzies — Inver — Dr.  Stewart 
— sup. 

Friday — Walk  with  Mrs.  Stewart  and  Beard 
to  Birnam  top — fine  prospect  down  Tay- 
Craigieburn  hills — Hermitage  on  the  Branwater, 
with  a  picture  of  Ossian — Breakfast  with  Dr. 
Stewart — Neil  Gow'  plays — a  shorty  stout-built, 
honest  Highland  figure,  with  his  grayish  hair 
shed  on  his  honest  social  brow — an  interesting 
face,  marking  strong  sense,  kind  openhearted- 
ness,  mixed  with  unmistrusting  simplicity — visit 
his  house — Marget  Gow. 

Ride  up  Tummel  River  to  Blair — Fascally  a 
beautiful  romantic  nest — wild  grandeur  of  the 
pass  of  Gilliecrankie — visit  the  gallant  Lord 
Dundee's  stone. 

Blair — Sup  with  the  Duchess — easy  and  happy 
from  the  manners  of  the  family — confirmed  in 
my  good  opinion  of  my  friend  Walker, 

Saturday. — Visit  the  scenes  round  Blair — 
fine,  but  spoiled  with  bad  taste — Tilt  and  Gairie 
rivers — Falls  on  the  Tilt — Heather  seat — Ride 
in  company  with  Sir  William  Murray  and  Mr. 
Walker,  to  Loch  Tummel — meanderings  of  the 


Mellifluous,  strong,  exuberantly  rich  I 
No  more,  amid  the  pauses  of  the  dance, 
Shall  he  repeat  those  measures,  that  in  days 
Of  other  years,  could  soothe  a  falling  prince, 
And  light  his  visage  w^ith  a  transient  smile 
Of  melancholy  joy, — like  autumn  sun 
Gilding  a  sear  tree  w^ith  a  passing  beam  I 
Or  play  to  sportive  children  on  the  green 
Dancing  at  gloamin  hour ;  or  willing  cheer 
With  strains  unbought,  the  shepherd's  bridal  day." 
British  Georgics,  p.  81 


THE   HIGHLAND   TOUR. 


529 


Rannach,  which  runs  through  quondam  Struan 
Robertson's  estate  from  Loch  Rannach  to  Loch 
Tummel  —  Dine  at  Blair  —  Company — General 
Murray  —  Captain  Murray,  an  honest  tar  — 
Sir  William  Murray,  an  honest,  worthy  man, 
but  tormented  with  the  hypochondria — Mrs. 
Graham,  belle  et  aimable — jVtiss  Catchcart  — 
Mrs.  Murray,  a  painter — Mrs.  King — Duchess 
and  fine  family,  the  Marquis,  Lords  James,  Ed- 
ward, and  Robert — Ladies  Charlotte,  Emilia,  and 
children  dance — Sup — Mr.  Graham  of  Fintray. 
Come  up  the  Garrie — Falls  of  Bruar — Dalde- 
cairoch — Dalwhinnie — Dine — Snow  on  the  hills 
17  feet  deep — No  corn  from  Loch-Gairie  to  Dal- 
whinnie— Cross  the  Spey,  and  come  down  the 
stream  to  Pitnin — Straths  rich — les  environs  pic- 
turesque— Craigow  hill — Ruthven  of  Badenoch 
—  Barracks  —  wild  and  magnificent  —  Rothe- 
murche  on  the  other  side,  and  Glenmore — 
Grant  of  Rothemurche's  poetry — told  me  by 
the  Duke  of  Gordon — Strathspey,  rich  and  ro- 
mantic— Breakfast  at  Aviemore,  a  wild  spot — 
dine  at  Sir  James  Grant's — Lady  Grant,  a  sweet, 
pleasant  body — come  through  mist  and  dark- 
ness to  Dulsie,  to  lie. 

Tuesday. — Findhorn  river — rocky  banks — 
come  on  to  Castle  Cawdor,  where  Macbeth 
murdered  King  Duncan — saw  the  bed  in  which 
King  Duncan  was  stabbed — dine  at  Kilravock 
— Mrs.  Rose,  sen.,  a  true  chieftain's  wife — Fort 
George — Inverness. 

Wednesday. — Loch  Ness — Braes  of  Ness — Ge- 
neral's hut — Falls  of  Fyers — Urquhart  Castle 
and  Strath. 

Thursday. — Come  over  CullodenMuir — reflec- 
tions on  the  field  of  battle — breakfast  at  Kilra- 
vock— old  Mrs.  Rose,  sterling  sense,  warm 
heart,  strong  passions,  and  honest  pride,  all  in 
an  uncommon  degree — Mrs.  Rose,  jun.,  a  little 
milder  than  the  mother — this  perhaps  owing  to 
her  being  younger — Mr.  Grant,  minister  at 
Calder,  resembles  Mr.  Scott  at  Inverleithing — 
Mrs.  Rose  and  Mrs.  Grant  accompany  us  to 
Kildruramie — two  young  ladies — Miss  Rose, 
who  sung  two  Gaelic  songs,  beautiful  and  lovely 
— Miss  Sophia  Brodie,  most  agreeable  and  ami- 
able— both  of  them  gentle,. mild ;  the  sweetest 
creatures  on  earth,  and  happiness  be  with  them ! 
— Dine  at  Nairn — fall  in  with  a  pleasant  enough 
gentleman.  Dr.  Stewart,  who  had  been  long  ' 
abroad  with  his  father  in  the  forty-five ;  and  i 
Mr.  Falconer,  a  spare,  irascible,  warm-hearted  ; 
Norland,  and  a  nonjuror — Brodie-house  to  lie. 
31 


Friday. — Forres — famous   stone    at  Forres — 

Mr.  Brodie  tells  me  that  the  muir  where  Shak- 

speare    lays  Macbeth's  witch-meeting   is  still 

haunted — that  the  country  folks  won't  pass  it  by 

night. 

*  *  -x-  -x- 

Venerable  ruins  of  Elgin  Abbey — ^A  grander 
effect  at  first  glance  than  Melrose,  but  not  near 
so  beautiful — Cross  Spey  to  Fochabers— fine 
palace,  worthy  of  the  generous  proprietor — Dine 
— company,  Duke  and  Duchess,  Ladies  Char- 
lotte   and    Magdeline,  Col.    Abercrombie,    and 

Lady,  Mr.  Gordon  and  Mr. ,  a  clergyman, 

a  venerable,  aged  figure — the  Duke  makes  me 
happier  than  ever  great  man  did  —  noble, 
princely ;  yet  mild,  condescending,  and  affable  ; 
gay  and  kind — the  Duchess  witty  and  sensible 
— God  bless  them  ! 

Come  to  Cullen  to  lie — hitherto  the  country 
is  sadly  poor  and  unimproven. 

Come  to  Aberdeen — meet  with  Mr.  Chalmers, 
printer,  a  facetious  fellow — Mr.  Ross  a  fine 
fallow,  like  Professor  Tytler, — Mr.  Marshal 
one  of  the  poetce  minores — Mr.  Sheriffs,  authoi 
of  "  Jamie  and  Bess,"  a  little  decrepid  body 
with  some  abilities — Bishop  Skinner,  a  nonjuror, 
son  of  the  author  of  "  Tullochgorum,"  a  man 
whose  mild,  venerable  manner  is  the  most 
marked  of  any  in  so  young  a  man — Professor 
Gordon,  a  good-natured,  jolly-looking  professor 
— Aberdeen,  a  lazy  town — near  Stonhive,  the 
coast  a  good  deal  romantic — meet  my  relations 
— Robert  Burns,  writer,  in  Stonhive,  one  of 
those  who  love  fun,  a  gill,  and  a  punning  joke, 
and  have  not  a  bad  heart — his  wife  a  sweet 
hospitable  body,  without  any  affectation  of  what 
is  called  town-breeding. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast  with  Mr.  Burns — ^lie  at 

Lawrence  Kirk — Album  library — Mrs. a 

jolly,  frank,  sensible,  love-inspiring  widow — 
Howe  of  the  Mearns,  a  rich,  cultivated,  but  still 
unenclosed  country. 

Wednesday.  —  Cross  North  Esk  river  and  a 
rich  country  to  Craigow. 

*  *  *  * 

Go  to  Montrose,  that  finely-situated  handsome 
town — breakfast  at  Muthie,  and  sail  along  that 
wild  rocky  coast,  and  see  the  famous  caverns, 
particularly  the  Gariepot — land  and  dine  at 
Arbroath — stately  ruins  of  Arbroath  Abbey — 
come  to  Dundee  through  a  fertile  country — 
Dundee  a  low-lying,  but  pleasant  town — old 
Steeple — Tayfritli  —  Broughty  Castle,  a  finely 
situated  ruin,  jutting  into  the  Tay. 


530 


THE   POETS   ASSIGNMENT. 


Friday. — ^Breakfast  with  the  Miss  Scotts — Miss 
Bess  Scott  like  Mrs.  Greenfield—my  hardship 
almost  in  love  with  her— come  through  the  rich 
harvests  and  fine  hedge-rows  of  the  Carse  of 
Gowrie,  along  the  romantic  margin  of  the 
Grampian  hills,  to  Perth— fine,  fruitful,  hilly, 
woody  country  round  Perth. 

Saturday  Morning. — Leave  Perth — come  up 
Strathearn  to  Endermay — fine,  fruitful,    culti- 


vated Strath — the  scene  of  "Bessy  Bell,  and 
Mary  Gray,"  near  Perth — fine  scenery  on  the 
banks  of  the  May — Mrs.  Belcher,  gawcie, 
frank,  aflFable,  fond  of  rural  sports,  hunting, 
&c. — Lie  at  Kinross — ^reflections  in  a  fit  of  the 
colic. 

Sunday. — Pass  through  a  cold,  barren  country 
to  Queensferry — dine — cross  the  ferry  and  on  to 
Edinburgh. 


THE  POET'S  ASSIGNMENT  OF  HIS  WORKS. 


Know  all  men  by  these  presents  that  I  Robert 
Burns  of  Mossgiel :  whereas  I  intend  to  leave 
Scotland  and  go  abroad,  and  having  acknow- 
ledged myself  the  father  of  a  child  named  Eli- 
zabeth, begot  upon  Elizabeth  Paton  in  Largie- 
side :  and  whereas  Gilbert  Burns  in  Mossgiel, 
my  brother,  has  become  bound,  and  hereby 
binds  and  obliges  himself  to  aliment,  clothe,  and 
educate  my  said  natural  child  in  a  suitable 
manner  as  if  she  was  his  own,  in  case  her 
mother  chuse  to  part  with  her,  and  that  until 
she  arrive  at  the  age  of  fifteen  years.  There- 
fore, and  to  enable  the  said  Gilbert  Burns  to 
make  good  his  said  engagement,  wit  ye  me  to 
have  assigned,  disponed,  conveyed  and  made 
over  to,  and  in  favours  of,  the  said  Gilbert 
Burns,  his  heirs,  executors,  and  assignees,  who 
are  always  to  be  bound  in  like  manner,  with 
himself,  all  and  sundry  goods,  gear,  corns, 
cattle,  horses,  nolt,  sheep,  household  furniture, 
and  all  other  moveable  eflFects  of  whatever  kind 
that  I  shall  leave  behind  me  on  my  departure 
from  this  Kingdom,  after  allowing  for  my  part 
of  the  conjunct  debts  due  by  the  said  Gilbert 
Burns  and  me  as  joint  tacksmen  of  the  farm  of 
Mossgiel.  And  particularly  without  prejudice 
of  the  foresaid  generality,  the  profits  that  may 
arise  from  the  publication  of  my  poems  pre- 
sently in  the  press.  And  also,  I  hereby  dispone 
and  convey  to  him  in  trust  for  behoof  of  my  said 
natural  daughter,  the  copyright  of  said  poems 
in  so  far  as  I  can  dispose  cf  the  same  by  law, 
after  she  arrives  at  the  above  age  of  fifteen 
years  complete.  Surrogating  and  substituting 
the  said  Gilbert  Burns  my  brother  and  his  fore- 
saids in  my  full  right,  title,  room  and  place  of 
the  whole  premises,  with  power  to  him  to 
Intromit  with,  and  dispose  upon  the  same  at 
pleasure,  and  in  general  to  do  every  other  thing 


in  the  premises  that  I  could  have  done  myself 
before  granting  hereof,  but  always  with  and 
under  the  conditions  before  expressed.  And  I 
oblige  myself  to  warrant  this  disposition  and 
assignation  from  my  own  proper  fact  and  deed 
allenarly.  Consenting  to  the  registration  hereof 
in  the  books  of  Council  and  Session,  or  any 
other  Judges  books  competent,  therein  to  remain 
for  preservation  and  constitute. 

Proculars,  &c.  In  witness  whereof  I  have 
wrote  and  signed  these  presents,  consisting  of 
this  and  the  preceding  page,  on  stamped  paper, 
with  my  own  hand,  at  the  Mossgiel,  the  twenty- 
second  day  of  July,  one  thousand  seven  hiindred 
and  eighty-six  years. 

(Signed)  ROBERT  BURNS. 


Upon  the  twenty-fourth  day  of  July,  one  thou 
sand  seven  hundred  and  eighty-six  years,  I, 
William  Chalmer,  Notary  Publick,  past  to  th« 
Mercat  Cross  of  Ayr  head  Burgh  of  the  Sheriff 
dome  thereof,  and  thereat  I  made  due  and  law- 
ful intimation  of  the  foregoing  disposition  antjl 
assignation  to  his  Majesties  lieges,  that  they 
might  not  pretend  ignorance  thereof  by  reading 
the  same  over  in  presence  of  a  number  of  peopU 
assembled.  Whereupon  William  Crooks,  writer, 
in  Ayr,  as  attorney  for  the  before  designed 
Gilbert  Burns,  protested  that  the  same  was  law- 
fully intimated,  and  asked  and  took  instruments 
in  my  hards.  These  things  were  done  betwixl 
the  hours  of  ten  and  eleven  forenoon,  before 
and  in  presence  of  William  M'Cubbin,  and  Wil 
liam  Eaton,  apprentices  to  the  Sheriff  Clerk 
of  Ayr,  witnesses  to  the  premises. 
(Signed) 

William  Chalmee,  N.  P. 

William  M'Cubbin,  Witness. 

William  Eaton,  Witness. 


GLOSSAEY. 

"  The  ch  and  gli  have  al^rays  the  guttural  sound.    The  sound  of  the  English  diphthong  oo  is  3ommonlj 

ipelled  ou.    The  French  u,  a  sound  which  often  occurs  in  the  Scottish  language,  is  marked  oo  or  ui.    The  a, 

In  genuine  Scottish  words,  except  when  forming  a  diphthong,  or  followed  by  an  e  mute  after  a  single  con- 

sonant, sounds  generally  like  the  broad  English  a  in  wall.     The  Scottish  diphthong  ae  always,  and  ea  very 

often,  sound  like  the  French  e  masculine.    The  Scottish  diphthong  ey  sounds  like  the  Latin  ei." 

A. 

Aqueesh,  between. 

Bauld,  bold. 

A',  all. 

Aught,  possession,  as  "in  a'  my 

Bawa'nt,  having  a  white    stripe 

Aback,  away,  aloof,  backwards. 

aught,"  in  all  my  possession. 

down  the  face. 

Aheigh,  at  a  shy  distance. 

Auld,  old. 

Be,  to  let  be,  to  give  over,  to  cease. 

Ahoon,  above,  up. 

Auld-farran',  auld  farrant,  saga- 

Beeta, boots. 

Ahread,  abroad,  in  sight,  to  publish. 

cious,  prudent,  cunning. 

Bear,  barley. 

Ahreed,  in  breadth. 

Ava,  at  all. 

Bearded-bear,    barley    with    ita 

Ae,  one. 

Awa,  away,  begone. 

bristly  head. 

Aff,  oflF. 

Awfu',  awful. 

Beaatie,  diminutive  of  beast. 

Aff-loof,      off-hand,     extempore, 

Auld-ahoon,  old  shoes  literally,  a 

Beet,  beek,  to  add  fuel  to  a  fire,  to 

without  premeditation. 

discarded   lover    metaphori- 

bask. 

Afore,  before. 

cally. 

Beld,  bald. 

Aft,  oft. 

Aumoa,  gift  to  a  beggar. 

Belyve,    by    and    by,    presently. 

Aften,  often. 

Aumoa-dtah,   a  beggar's   dish    in 

quickly. 

Agley,  off  the  right  line,  wrong. 

which  the  aumos  is  received. 

Ben,  into  the  spence  or  parlour. 

awry. 

Awn,  the  beard  of  barley,  oats,  «tc. 

Benmoat-bore,  the  remotest  holci 

Aihlins,  perhaps. 

Avonie,  bearded. 

the  innermost  recess. 

Aim,  own. 

Ayont,  beyond. 

Bethankit,  grace  after  meat 

Aim,  iron,  a  tool  of  that  metal,  a 

Beuk,  a  book. 

mason's  chisel. 

B. 

Bicker,  a  kind  of  wooden  dish,  a 

Airlea,  earnest  money. 

Ba',  ball. 

short  rapid  race. 

Airl-penmj,  a  silver  penny  given 

Babie-clouta,  child's  first  clothes. 

Bickering,     careering,     hurrying 

as  erles  or  hiring  money. 

Backeta,  ash-boards,  as  pieces  of 

with  quarrelsome  intent 

Airt,  quarter  of  the  heaven,  point 

backet  for  removing  ashes. 

Bimie,   bimie   ground    is  where 

of  the  compass. 

Backlina,   comin',   coming    back, 

thick  heath  has  been  bnrat^ 

Agee,  on  one  side. 

returning. 

leaving  the  birns,  or  uncon- 

Aitour,  moreover,  beyond,  besides. 

Back-yett,  private  gate. 

sumed    stalks,    standing    up 

Aith,  an  oath. 

Baide,  endured,  did  stay. 

sharp  and  stubley. 

Ait«,  oats. 

Baggie,  the  belly. 

Bie,  or  bield,  shelter,  a  sheltered 

Aiver,  an  old  horse. 

Bairn,  a  child. 

place,  the  sunny  nook  of  a 

Aizle,  a  hot  cindet,  an  ember  of 

Bairn-time,  a  family  of  children, 

wood. 

wood. 

a  brood. 

Bien,  wealthy,  plentifoL 

Alake,  alas. 

Baith,  both. 

Big,  to  build. 

Alane,  alone. 

Balleta,  ballanta,  ballads. 

Biggin,  building,  a  house. 

Akwart,  awkward,  athwart 

Ban,  to  swear. 

Biggit,  built 

Amaiat,  almost. 

Bane,  bone. 

Bill,  a  bull. 

Among,  among. 

Bang,  to  beat,  to  strive,  to  excel. 

Billie,  a  brother,  a  young  fellow. 

An',  and,  if. 

Bannock,  flat,  round,  soft  cake. 

a  companion. 

Ance,  once. 

Bardie,  diminutive  of  bard. 

Bing,  a  heap  of  grain,  potatoes, 

Ane,  one. 

Bareft,  barefooted. 

Ac. 

Anent,    overagainst,    concerning, 

BarUy-bree,  barley-broo,  blood  of 

Birdie-cock*,  young  cocks,  still  be- 

about 

barley,  malt  liquor. 

longing  to  the  brood. 

Anither,  another. 

Barmie,  of,  or  like  barm,  yeasty. 

^tV*,  birch. 

4«e,  ashes  of  wood,  remwns  of  a 

Batch,  a  crew,  a  gang. 

Birkie,  a  clever,  a  forward  con- 

hearth fir*^. 

Batta,  botla. 

ceited  fellow. 

iateer  abroad,  jtirring  in  a  lively 

Batickie-bird,  the  bat. 

Birring,  the  noise  of  partridges 

manner. 

Baudront,  a  cat 

when  they  rise. 

(531)                 1 

532 


GLOSSARY. 


Pi r sea,  bristles. 

Bit,  crisis,  nick  of  time,  place. 

Bizz,  a  bustle,  to  buzz. 

Blacks  the  yrun',  as  black  as  the 
ground. 

Blastie,  a  shrivelled  dwarf,  a  term 
of  contempt,  full  of  mis- 
chief. 

Blnstit,  blasted. 

Blate,  bashful,  sheepish. 

BUither,  bladder. 

Blaud,  a  flat  piece  of  anything,  to 
slap. 

Blaudin-ahower,  a  heavy  driving 
rain;  a  blauding  signifies  a 
beating. 

Blaic,  to  blow,  to  boast;  "blaw  i' 
my  lug,"  to  flatter. 

Bleerit,  bedimmed,  eyes  hurt  with 
weeping. 

Bleer  my  een,  dim  my  eyes. 

Blceziiuj,  bleeze,  blazing,  flame. 

Blellum,  idle  talking  fellow. 

Blether,  to  talk  idly. 

Bleth'rin,  talking  idly. 

Blink,  a  little  while,  a  smiling 
look,  to  look  kindly,  to  shine 
by  fits. 

Blinker,  a  term  of  contempt:  it 
means,  too,  a  lively  engaging 
girl. 

Blinkin',  smirking,  smiling  with 
the  eyes,  looking  lovingly. 

Blirt  and  blearie,  out-burst  of  grief, 
with  wet  eyes. 

Blue-gown,  one  of  those  beggars 
who  get  annually,  on  the 
king's  birth-day,  a  blue  cloak 
or  gown  with  a  badge. 

Bluid,  blood. 

Bhjpe,  a  shred,  a  large  piece. 

Babbit,  the  obeisance  made  by  a 
lady. 

Bock,  to  vomit,  to  gush  intermit- 
tently. 

Backed,  gushed,  vomited. 

Badle,  a  copper  coin  of  the  value 
of  two  pennies  Scots. 

Bogie,  a  small  morass. 

Bonnie,  or  bonny,  handsome,  beau- 
tiful. 

Bannock,  a  kind  of  thick  cake  of 
bread,  a  small  jannock  or  loaf 
made  of  oatmeal.  See  Ban- 
nock. 

Board,  a  board. 

Bore,  a  hole  in  a  wall,  a  cranny. 
Boortree,  the  shrub  elder,  planted 
much  of  old  in  hedges  of  barn- 
yards and  gardens. 
Jiccat,  behoved,  must  needs,  wil- 
fulness. 
Botch,  blotch,  an  angry  tumour. 
Boufing,  drinking,  making  merry 

with  liquor. 
Bowk,  body. 
Bow-kail,  cabbage. 
Boic-hought,  out-kneed,  crooked  at 

the  knee  joint. 
Bowt,  bowU,  bended,  crooked. 
Brackens,  fern. 
Brae,  a  declivity,  a  precipice,  the 

slope  of  a  hill. 
Braid,  broad. 


Braik,  an  instrument  for  rough - 
dressing  flax. 

Brainge,  to  run  rashly  forward,  to 
churn  violently. 

Braing't,  "the  horse  braing't," 
plunged  and  fretted  in  the 
harness. 

Brak,  broke,  became  insolvent. 

Branka,  a  kind  of  wooden  curb  for 
horses. 

Brankie,  gaudy. 

Braah,  a  sudden  illness. 

Brats,  coarse  clothes,  rags,  &c. 

Brattle,  a  short  race,  hurry,  fury. 

Braw,  fine,  handsome. 

Braiolys,  or  brawlie,  very  well, 
finely,  heartily,  bravely. 

Braxies,  diseased  sheep. 

Breaatie,  diminutive  of  breast. 

Breastit,  did  spring  up  or  forward ; 
the  act  of  mounting  a  horse. 

Brechame,  a  horse-collar. 

Breckena,  fern. 

Breef,  an  invulnerable  or  irresisti- 
ble spell. 

Breeks,  breeches. 

Brent,  bright,  clear;  "a  brent 
brow,"  a  brow  high  and 
smooth. 

Brewin',  brewing,  gathering. 

Bree,  juice,  liquid. 

Brig,  a  bridge. 

Britnstane,  brimstone. 

Brisket,  the  breast,  the  bosom. 

Brither,  a  brother. 

Brock,  a  badger. 

Brogxie,  a  hum,  a  trick. 

Broo,  broth,  liquid,  water. 

Broose,  broth,  a  race  at  country 
weddings;  hewhofirstreaches 
the  bridegroom's  house  on  re- 
turning from  church  wins  the 
broose. 

Browst,  ale,  as  much  malt  liquor 
as  is  brewed  at  a  time. 

Brngh,  a  burgh. 

Bruilsie,  a  broil,  combustion. 

Brunt,  did  burn,  burnt. 

Brust,  to  burst,  burst. 

Buchan-bullers,  the  boiling  of  the 
sea  among  the  rocks  on  the 
coast  of  Buchan. 

Buckskin,  an  inhabitant  of  Vir- 
ginia. 

Buff  our  beef,  thrash  us  soundly, 
give  us  a  beating  behind  and 
before. 

Buff  and  blue,  the  colours  of  the 
Whigs. 

Buirdly,  stout  made,  broad  built. 

Bum-clock,  the  humming  beetle 
that  flies  in  the  summer  even- 
ings. 

Bummin,  humming  as  bees,  buz- 
zing. 
j  Bummle,  to  blunder,  a  drone,  an 
'  idle  fellow. 

Bummler,  a  blunderer,  one  whose 
noise  is  greater  than  his  work. 

Bunker,  a  window-seat. 

Bure,  did  bear. 

Burn,  burnie,  water,  a  rivulet,  a 
small  stream  which  is  heard 
as  it  runs. 


Burnietoin',  burn   the   wind,   th« 

blacksmith. 

Burr-thistle,  the  thistle  of  Scot- 
land. 

Buskit,  dressed. 

Buekit-neat,  an  ornamented  t^A 
dence. 

Buale,  a  bustle. 

But,  bat,  without. 

But  and  ben,  the  country  kitchel 
and  parlour. 

By  himself,  lunatic,  distracted,  be- 
side himself. 

Byke,  a  bee-hive,  a  wild  bee-nest. 

Byre,  a  cow-house,  a  sheep-pen. 

C. 

Ca',  to  call,  to  name,  to  drive. 
Ca't,  called,  driven,  calved. 
Cadger,  a  carrier. 
Gadie,  or  caddie,  a  person,  a  youn| 

fellow,  a  public  messenger. 
Caff,  chaff. 
Caird,  a  tinker,  a  maker  of  horn 

spoons  and  teller  of  fortunes. 
Cairn,  a  loose  heap  of  stones,  a 

rustic  monument. 
Calf-ward,  a  small  enclosure  for    I 

calves.  ' 

Calimanco,  a  certain  kind  of  cotton 

cloth  worn  by  ladies. 
Callan,  a  boy. 

Caller,  fresh.  ' 

Callet,  a  loose  woman,  a  foUowei 

of  a  camp. 
Cannie,  gentle,  mild,  dexterous. 
Cannilie,  dexterously,  gently. 
Cantie,  or  canty,  cheerful,  merry. 
Cnntraip,  a  charm,  a  spell. 
Cap-stane,     cape-stone,     topmost 

stone  of  the  building. 
Car,  a  rustic  cart  with  or  without 

wheels. 
Careerin',  moving  cheerfully. 
Castock,  the  stalk  of  a  cabbage. 
Carl,  an  old  man. 
Carl-hemp,  the  male  stalk  of  hemp, 

easily  known  by  its  superior 

strength    and     stature,    and 

being  without  seed. 
Carlin,  a  stout  old  woman. 
Cartes,  cards. 
Caudron,  a  cauldron. 
Cauk  and  keel,  chalk  and  red  clay 
Caidd,  cold. 
Catip,  a  wooden  drinking  vessel  a 

cup. 
Catne,  a  hen-coop. 
Chanter,  drone  of  a  bagpipe. 
Chap,  a  person,  a  fellow. 
Chaup,  a  stroke,  a  blow. 
Cheek  for  chow,  close  and  united, 

brotherly,  side  by  side. 
Cheekit,  cheeked. 
Cheep,  a  chirp,  to  chirp. 
Chiel,  o'r  cheat,  a  young  fellow. 
Chimla,   or   chimlie,  a   fire-grate, 

fire-place. 
Chimla-lug,  the  fire-side. 
Chirps,  cries  of  a  young  bird. 
Chittering,  shivering,  trembling. 
Chockin,  choking. 
Chow,  to  chew;  a  quid  of  tobaoCQ 
1   Chuekie,  a  brood-hen. 


GLOSSARY. 

533 

CTmffie,  fat-faced. 

Caller,  the   inhabitant  of  a  cot- 

ice,    practised    in    Scotland 

Cluchan,  a  small  village  about  a 

house,  or  cottage. 

called  curling. 

church,  a  hamlet. 

Couthie,  kind,  loving. 

Curlie,   curled,    whose   hair  falls 

Claise,  or  claea,  clothes. 

Cove,  a  cave. 

naturally  in  ringlets. 

Claith,  cloth. 

Cowe,  to  terrify,  to  keep  under,  to 

Curling,  a  well-known  game  on 

Claithing,  clothing. 

lop. 

the  ice. 

Clavers  and  havers,  agreeable  non- 

Cotcp, to  barter,  to  tumble  over. 

Curmurring,  murmuring,  a  slight 

sense,  to  talk  foolishly. 

Cowp  the  cran,  to  tumble  a  full 

rumbling  noise. 

Clapper -claps,    the    clapper   of   a 

bucket  or  basket 

Curpin,  the  crupper,  the  rump. 

mill;  it  is  now  silenced. 

Coicpit,  tumbled. 

Curple,  the  rear. 

Claii-clacTt,  clapper  of  a  mill. 

Coicrin,  cowering. 

Cushat,  the  dove,  or  wood-pigeon 

Clartie,  dirty,  filthy. 

Coxcte,  a  colt 

Cutty,  short,  a  spoon  broken  in  the 

Clarkit,  wrote. 

Cosie,  snug. 

middle. 

Clash,  an  idle  tale. 

Crabbit,  crabbed,  fretful. 

Cutty  Stool,  or,  Creepie  Chair,  the 

Clatter,  to  tell  little  idle  stories, 

Creuks,  a  disease  of  horses. 

seat  of  shame,  stool  of  re- 

an idle  story. 

Crack,  conversation,  to  converse. 

pentance. 

Claught,  snatched  at,  laid  hold  of. 

to  boast. 

Claut,  to  clean,  to  scrape. 

Crackin',     cracked,     conversing. 

D. 

Clauted,  scraped. 

conversed. 

Daddie,  a  father. 

Claw,  to  scratch. 

Craft,  or  croft,  a  field  near  a  house, 

Baffin,  merriment,  foolishness. 

Cleed,  to  clothe. 

in  old  husbandry. 

Daft,  merry,  giddy,  foolish ;  Da  U 

Cleek,  hook,  snatch. 

Craig,  craigie,  neck. 

buckie,  mad  fish. 

Cleekin,  a  brood  of  chickens,  or 

Crai'ka,  cries  or  calls  incessantly,  a 

Daimen,  rare,  now  and  then ;  Dai- 

ducks. 

bird,  the  corn-rail. 

men  icker,  an  ear  of  com  oo 

Clegs,  the  gad  flies. 

Crambo-clink,     or     crambo-jingle, 

casionally. 

Clinkin,  "  clinking  down,"  sitting 

rhymes,  doggrel  verses. 

Dainty,  pleasant,  good-humoured. 

down  hastily. 

Crank,  the  noise  of  an  ungreased 

agreeable,  rare. 

CUnkum-hell,  the  church  bell ;  he 

wheel— metaphorically  inhar- 

Dandered, wandered. 

who  rings  it;  a  sort  of  beadle. 

monious  verse. 

Darklins,  darkling,  without  light. 

Clips,  wool-shears. 

Crankous,  fretful,  captious. 

Daud,  to  thrash,  to  abuse ;  Daudin- 

Clishinaclaver,  idle  conversation. 

Cranreuch,  the  hoar-frost,  called  in 

showers,  rain  urged  by  wind. 

Clock,  to  hatch,  a  beetle. 

Nithsdale  "  frost-rhyme." 

Daur,  to  dare ;  Daurt,  dared. 

Clockin,  hatching. 

Crap,  a  crop,  to  crop. 

Daurg,  or  Daurk,  a  day's  labour. 

Cloot,  the  hoof  of  a  cow,  sheep, 

Craw,  a  crow  of  a  cock,  a  rook. 

Daur,  daurna,  dare,  dare  not. 

Ac. 

Creel,  a  basket,  to  have  one's  wits 

Davoc,   diminutive   of  Davie,   bs 

Clootie,  a  familiar  name  for  the 

in  a  creel,  to  be  crazed,  to  be 

Davie  is  of  David. 

devil. 

fascinated. 

Dawd,  a  large  piece. 

Clour,  a  bump,  or  swelling,  after 

Creshie,  greasy. 

Daioin,  dawning  of  the  day. 

a  blow. 

Crood,  or  Croud,  to  coo  as  a  dove. 

Dawtit,  dawtet,  fondled,  caressed. 

Cloutiu,  repairing  with  cloth. 

Croon,   a  hollow   and   continued 

Dearies,     diminutive     of     dears, 

Cluds,  clouds. 

moan;  to  make  a  noise  like 

sweethearts. 

Clunk,  the  sound  in  setting  down 

the  low  roar  of  a  bull;   to 

Dearthfu*,  dear,  expensive. 

an  empty  bottle. 

hum  a  tune. 

Deave,  to  deafen. 

Coaxin,  wheedling. 

Crooning,  humming. 

Deil-ma-care,   no   matter  for  all 

Coble,  a  fishing-boat. 

Crouchie,  crook-backed. 

that 

Cod,  a  pillow. 

Crome,  cheerful,  courageous. 

Deleerit,  delirious. 

Coft,  bought 

Crouslg,  cheerfully,  courageously. 

Describe,  to  describe,  to  perceive. 

Cog,  and  coggic,  a  wooden  dish. 

Crowdie,  a  composition  of  oatmeal, 

Deuks,  ducks. 

Coila,   from   Kyle,    a   district  in 

boiled     water    and     butter; 

Dight,  to  wipe,  to  clean  com  from 

Ayrshire,  so  called,  saith  tra- 

sometimes   made    from    the 

chaff. 

dition,  from  Coil,  or  Coilus,  a 

broth  of  beef,  mutton,  Ac.  Ac. 

Ding,  to  worst,  to  push,  to  surpass, 

Pictish  monarch. 

Crowdie  time,  breakfast  time. 

to  excel. 

Collie,  a  general,  and  sometimes  a 

Crowlin,    crawling,    a    deformed 

Dink,  neat,  lady-like. 

particular  name  for  country 

creeping  thing. 

Dinna,  do  not 

curs. 

Crummies   nicks,    marks    on    the 

Dirl,  a  slight  tremulous  stroke  or 

OAlie-shangie,   a   quarrel   among 

horns  of  a  cow. 

pain,  a  tremulous  motion. 

dogs,  an  Irish  row. 

Cntmmock,   Crummet,  a  cow   with 

D {stain,  stain. 

Commann,  command. 

crooked  horns. 

Dizzen,  a  dozen. 

CoHvoi/ed,  accotapanied  lovingly. 

Crummock   driddle,    walk   slowly, 

Doi-htcr,  daughter. 

CooVd  in  her  lincne,  cool'd  in  her 

leaning    on    a    stafl"  with   a 

Doited,  stupified,  silly  from  ag«\ 

death -shifc. 

crooked  head. 

Dolt,  stupilied,  crazed;  also  a  lt«  1. 

Cood,  the  cud. 

Crump-crumpin,  hard  and  brittle, 

Donsie,  unlucky,   affectedly   neat 

Coo/,  a  blockhead,  a  ninny. 

spoken  of  bread ;  frozen  snow 

and  trim,  pettish. 

Cookit,  appeared  and  disappeared 

yielding  to  the  foot 

Doodle,  to  dandle. 

by  fits. 

Cntnt,  a  blow  on  the  head  with  a 

Dool,  sorrow,  to  lament,  to  moom. 

Cooser,  a  stallion. 

cudgel. 

Dooa,  doves,  pigeons. 

Const,  did  cast 

Cuddle,  to  clasp  and  earess. 

Dorty,  saucy,  nice. 

Coot,  the  ankle,  a  species  of  water- 

Cummock, a  short  staff,   with   a 

Douse,  or  douce,  sober,  wise,  pru- 

fowl. 

crooked  head. 

dent 

Corbies,  blood  crows. 

Curch,  a  covering  for  the  head,  a 

Doucely,  soberly,  prodently. 

Cootie,  a    wooden    dish,   roagh- 

kerchief. 

Dought,  was  or  were  able. 

legged. 

Curchie,  a  curtesy,  female  obei- 

Doup, backside. 

Core,  corps,  party,  clan. 

sance. 

Doup-skelper,  one  that  strikes  the 

^in't,  fed  with  oats. 

Curltr,  a  player  at  a  game  on  the 

taiL 

584 

GLOS^aKY. 

^our  and  din,  sullen  mA  sallow. 

Faddom't,    fathomed,    measured 

Fleech,  to  supplicate  in  a  flattering 

Douaer,  more  prudenl. 

with  the  extended  arms. 

manner. 

Doio,  am  or  are  able,  c^n. 

Faea,  foes. 

Fleechin,  supplicating. 

Doioff,  pithless,  wapiing  force. 

Faem,  foam  of  the  sea. 

Fleeah,  a  fleece. 

Dowie,  worn  with  grief,  fatigue, 

Faiket,  forgiven  or  excused,  aba- 

Fleg, a  kick,  a  random  blow,  a 

<fcc.,  half  asleep. 

ted,  a  demand. 

fight. 

Downa,  am  or  are  not  able,  can- 

Fainneaa, gladness,  overcome  with 

Flether,  to  decoy  by  fair  words. 

not. 

joy- 

Flethrin,     flethers,      flattering  — 

Doylt,  wearied,  exhausted. 

Fairin',  fairing,  a  present  brought 

smooth  wheedling  words. 

Dozen,  stupified,  the  effects,  o^age, 

from  a  fair. 

Fley,  to  scare,  to  frighten. 

to  dozen,  to  benumb. 

Fallow,  fellow. 

Flichter,  flichtering,  to  flutter  M 

Drab,  a  young  female  beggar  j  to 

Fand,  did' find. 

young  nestlings  do  when  thei* 

spot,  to  stain. 

Farl,  a  cake  of  bread ;  third  part 

dam  approachea. 

Drap,  a  drop,  to  drop. 

of  a  cake. 

Flindera,  shreds,  broken  pieces. 

Drapping,  dropping. 

Faah,  trouble,  care,  to  trouble,  to 

Flingin-tree,   a    piece   of    timber 

Draunting,     drawling,     speaking 

care  for. 

hung  by  way  of  pai  tition  be- 

with a  sectarian  tone. 

Faaheous,  troublesome. 

tween  two  horses  in  a  stable ; 

Dreep,  to  ooze,  to  drop. 

Faaht,  troubled. 

a- flail. 

Dreigh,  tedious,  long  about  it,  lin- 

Faaten e'en,  Fasten's  even. 

Flisk,fliaky,  to  fret  at  the  yoke. 

gering. 

Faught,  fight. 

Fli^ket,  fretted. 

Dribble,  drizzling,  trickling. 

Faugh,  a  single  furrow,  out  of  lea, 

Flitter,  to  vibrate  like  the  winga 

Driddle,  the  motion  of  one  who 

fallow. 

of  small  birds. 

tries  to  dance  but  moves  the 

Fauld,  and  Fald,  a  fold  for  sheep, 

Flittering,    fluttering,    vibrating, 

middle  only. 

to  fold. 

moving     tremulously     from 

Drift,  a  drove,  a  flight  of  fowls, 

Faut,  fault. 

place  to  place. 

snow  moved  by  the  wind. 

Fawaont,  decent,  seemty. 

Flunkie,  a  servant  in  livery. 

Droddum,  the  breech. 

Feal,  loyal,  steadfast. 

Flyte,     fiyting,     scold;      flyting. 

Drone,  part    of   a    bagpipe,   the 

Fearfu',  fearful,  frightful. 

scolding. 

chanter. 

Fear^t,  affrighted. 

Foor,  hastened. 

Droop  rumpVt,  that  droops  at  *ie 

Feat,  neat,  spruce,  clever. 

Foord,  a  ford. 

crupper. 

Fecht,  to  fight. 

Forbears,  forefathers. 

Dronkit,  wet. 

Fechtin',  fighting. 

Fbrbye,  besides. 

Drouth,  thirst,  drought 

Feck  and/ei',  number,  quantity. 

For/aim,    distressed,    worn    out. 

Drucken,  drunken.      , 

Fecket,  an  under-waistcoat. 

jaded,  forlorn,  destitute. 

Drtimly,  muddy. 

Feckfii',  large,  brawny,  stout. 

Forgather,  to  meet,  to  encounter 

Drummock,   or    Drammock,   meal 

Feckleaa,  puny,  weak,  silly. 

with. 

and  water  mixed,  raw. 

Feckly,  mostly. 

Forgie,  to  forgive. 

Drunt,  pet,  sour  humour. 

Feg,  a  fig. 

Forinawed,  worn  out. 

Dub,  a  small  pond,  a  hollow  filled 

Fega,  faith,  an  exclamation. 

Forjeaket,  jaded  with  fatigue. 

with  rain  water. 

Feide,  feud,  enmity. 

Fou',  full,  drunk. 

Duds,  rags,  clothes. 

Fell,  keen,  biting;  the  flesh  im- 

Foughten,  forfoughten,    troubled, 

Duddie,  ragged. 

mediately  under    the    skin; 

fatigued. 

Dung-dang,      worsted,       pushed, 

level  moor. 

Foul-thief,   the   devil,   the  arch- 

stricken. 

Felly,  relentless. 

fiend. 

Dunted,  throbbed,  beaten. 

Fend,  Fen,  to  make  a  shift,  con- 

Fouth, plenty,  enough,   or  more 

Dush-dunah,  to  push,  or  butt  as  a 

trive  to  live. 

than  enough. 

ram. 

Ferlie  or  ferley,  to  wonder,  a  won- 

Fow, a  measure,  a  bushel:   also 

Dusht,  overcome  with  superstitious 

der,  a  term  of  contempt. 

a  pitchfork. 

fear,  to  drop  down  suddenly. 

Fetch,  to  pull  by  fits. 

Frae,  from. 

Di/vor,  bankrupt,  or  about  to  be- 

Fetch't, pull'd  intermittently. 

Freath,  froth,  the  frothing  of  ale 

come  one. 

Fey,   strange;    one    marked    for 

in  the  tankard. 

E. 

death,  predestined. 

Frien',  friend. 

Fidge,  to  fidget,  fidgeting. 

Froaty-calker,  the  heels  and  front 

E'e,  the  eye. 

Fidgin-fain,  tickled  with  pleasure. 

of  a  horse-shoe,  turned  sharp- 

Een, the  eyes,  the  evening. 

Fient,  fiend,  a  petty  oath. 

ly  up  for  riding  on  an   icy 

Eebree,  the  eyebrow. 

Fien    ma    care,    the    devil    may 

road. 

Benin',  the  evening. 

care. 

Fu',  full. 

Eerie,  frighted,  haunted,  dreading 

Fier,  sound,  healthy;  a  brother,  a 

Fudf  the  scut  or  tail  of  the  hare, 

spirits. 

friend. 

coney,  Ac. 

Eild,  old  age. 

Fierrie,  bustle,  activity. 

Fuff,  to  blow  intermittently. 

Elbuck,  the  elbow. 

Fiaale,  to  make  a  rustling  noise,  to 

Fu-hant,  full-handed ;  said  of  one 

Eldritch,  ghastly,  frightful,  elvish. 

fidget,  bustle,  fuss. 

well  to  live  in  the  world. 

En',  end. 

Fit,  foot. 

Funnie,  full  of  merriment. 

Enbrngh,  Edinburgh. 

Fittie-lan,   the    nearer    horse   of 

Fur-ahin,  the  hindmost  horse  on 

Eneugh,  and  aneuch,  enough. 

the    hindmost    pair    in    the 

the  right  hand  when  plough- 

Especial, especially. 

plough. 

ing. 

Ether-atone,  stone  formed  by  ad- 

Fizz, to  make  a  hissing  noise,  fuss. 

Furder,  further,  succeed. 

ders,  an  adder  bead. 

disturbance. 

Ftirm,  a  form,  a  bench. 

Ettle,  to  try,  attempt,  aim. 

Flaffen,  the  motion  of  rags  in  the 

Fuaionleaa,  spiritless,  without  sap 

Eydent,  diligent. 

wind;  of  wings. 

or  soul. 

Flainen,  flannel. 

Fyke,  trifling  cares,  to  be  in  a  fusi 

P. 

FlandreUna,  foreign  generals,  sol- 

about trifles. 

Fa',  fall,  lot,  to  fall,  fate. 

diers  of  Flanders. 

Fyte,  to  soil,  to  dirty. 

Fa'  that,  to  enjoy,  to  try,  to  inherit. 

Flang,  threw  with  violence. 

Fylt,  soiled,  dirtied. 

GLOSSARY. 


530 


G. 

Hah,  the  mouth,  to  speak  boldly  or 
pertly. 

Gaherlunzie,  wallet-man,  or  tinker. 

Gae,  to  go;  gaed,  went;  gane  or 
gaen,  gone ;  gaun,  going. 

Gaet  or  gate,  way,  manner,  road. 

Gaire,  parts  of  a  lady's  gown. 

Gang,  to  go,  to  walk. 

Gangrel,  a  wandering  person. 

Gar,  to  make,  to  force  to ;  gar't, 
forced  to. 

Garten,  a  garter. 

Gaah,  wise,  sagacious,  talkative, 
to  converse. 

Gatty,  failing  in  body. 

Gaucy,  jolly,  large,  plump. 

Gaud  and  gad,  a  rod  or  goad. 

Gaudsman,  one  who  drives  the 
horses  at  the  plough. 

Gaun,  going. 

Gaunted,  yawned,  longed. 

Gawkie,  a  thoughtless  person,  and 
something  weak. 

Gaylien,  gylie,  pretty  well. 

Gear,  riches,  goods  of  any  kind. 

Gecic,  to  toss  the  head  in  wanton- 
ness or  scorn. 

Ged,  a  pike. 

Gentles,  great  folks. 

Genty,  elegant. 

Geordie,  George,  a  guinea,  called 
Geordie  from  the  head  of 
King  George. 

Get  and  geat,  a  child,  a  young 
one. 

Ghaiat,  ghaistia,  a  ghost. 

Gie,  to  give;  gied,  gave;  gten, 
given. 

Giftie,  diminutive  of  gift 

Gigleta,  laughing  maidens. 

Gillie,  gillock,  diminutive  of  gill. 

Gilpey,  a  half-grown,  half-inform- 
ed boy  or  girl,  a  romping  lad, 
a  hoyden. 

Gimmer,  an  ewe  two  years  old,  a 
contemptuous  term  for  a  wo- 
man. 

Gin,  if,  against. 

Gipney,  a  young  girl. 

Girdle,  a  round  iron  plate  on 
which  oat-cake  is  fired. 

Girn,  to  grin,  to  twist  the  features 
in  rage,  agony,  Ac;  grin- 
ning. 

Gizz,  a  periwig,  the  face. 

Glaikit,  inattentive,  foolish. 

Glaive,  a  sword. 

GUlzie,  glittering,  smooth,  like 
glass. 

Glaumed,  grasped,  snatched  at 
eagerly. 

Girrnn,  a  poutherie  girran,  a  little 
vigorous  animal;  a  horse 
rather  old,  but  yet  active 
when  heated. 

Gled,  a  hawk. 

Gleg,  sharp,  ready. 

Gley,  a  squint,  to  squint;  a-yUjf, 
off  at  a  side,  wrong. 

Oleyde,  an  old  horse. 

Olib-gahbit,  that  speaks  smoothly 
and  readily. 


Glieh  o'  Ian',  a  portion  of  ground. 

The   ground  belonging  to  a 

manse  is  called  "  the  glieb," 

or  portion. 
Glint,  glintin',  to  peep. 
Glinted  by,  went  brightly  past. 
Gloamin,  the  twilight. 
Gloamin-ahot,   twilight-musing;  a 

shot  in  the  twilight 
Glowr,  to  stare,  to  look ;  a  stare, 

a  look. 
Glowran,  amazed,  looking  suspi- 
ciously, gazing. 
Glum,  displeased. 
Gor-cocka,  the  red-game,  red-cock, 

or  moor-cock. 
Gowan,  the   flower  of  the  daisy, 

dandelion,  hawkweed,  Ac. 
Gowany,  covered  with  daisies. 
Goavan,   walking  as  if  blind,  or 

without  an  aim. 
Gowd,  gold. 
Gowl,  to  howl. 
Gowff,  a  fool;  the  game  of  golf, 

to  strike,  as  the  bat  does  the 

baU  at  golf. 
Gowk,    t^^    of    contempt,    the 

cuckoo. 
Grane  or  grain,  a  groan,  to  groan  ; 

graining,  groaning. 
Graip,  a  pronged  instrument  for 

cleaning  cowhouses. 
Graith,  accoutrements,  furniture, 

dress. 
Grannie,  grandmother. 
Grape,  to  grope ;  grapet,  groped. 
Great,  grit,  intimate,  familiar. 
Gree,  to  agree ;  to  hear  the  gree,  to 

be   decidedly   victor;    gree't, 

agreed. 
Green-yraff,  green  grave. 
Grueaome,  loathsomely,  grim. 
Greet,   to   shed    tears,   to    weep; 

greetin',  weeping. 
Grey -neck-quill,  a  quill  unfit  for  a 

pen. 
Griena,  longs,  desires. 
Grievea,  stewards. 
Grippit,  seized. 

Groanin-Maut,  drink  for  the  cum- 
mers at  a  lying-in. 
Groat,  to  get  the  whistle  of  one's 

groat;  to  play  a  losing  game, 

to  feel   the  consequences  of 

one's  folly. 
Groset,  a  gooseberry. 
Grumph,  a  grunt,  to  grunt 
Orumphie,  Grumphin,  a  sow ;  the 

snorting  of  an  angry  pig. 
Grun',  ground. 
Grunatone,  a  grindstone. 
Grnntle,   the   phiz,   the   snout,   a 

grunting  noise. 
Grumie,   a  mouth   which    pokes 

out  like  that  of  a  pig. 
Gruahie,  thick,  of  thriving  growth. 
Gude,  guid,  guida,  the   Supreme 

Being,  good,  goods. 
Gude  auld-haa-heen,  was  once  ex- 
cellent 
Guid-montin',  good-morrow. 
Guid-e'en,  good  evening. 
Guid/ather  &n,&  guidmother,  father* 

in-law,  and  mother-in-law. 


Guidman  and  guidun/e,  the  mastel 
and  mistress  of  the  house; 
young  guidman,  a  man  newly 
married. 

Gully  or  Gullie,  a  large  knife. 

Gulravage,  joyous  mischief. 

Gumlie,  muddy. 

Gumption,  discernment,  know- 
ledge, talent 

Guaty,  guatfu',  tasteful. 

Gut-acraper,  a  fiddler. 

Gutcher,  grandsire. 


Ha',  hall. 

Ha'  Bible,  the  great  Bible  that  lies 
in  the  hall. 

Haddin',  house,  home,  dwelling- 
place,  a  possession. 

Hae,  to  have,  to  accept 

Haen,  had  (the  participle  of  hae) ; 
haven. 

Haet,  fient  haet,  a  petty  oath  of 
negation;  nothing. 

Haffet,  the  temple,  the  side  of  the 
head. 

Hafflina,  nearly  half,  partly,  not 
fully  grown. 

Hag,  a  gulf  in  mosses  and  moors, 
moss-ground. 

Haggia,  a  kind  of  pudding,  boiled 
in  the  stomach  of  a  cow,  or 
sheep. 

Hain,  to  spare,  to  save,  to  lay  ou* 
at  interest 

Hain'd,  spared;  hain'd  gear, 
hoarded  money. 

^airat,  harvest 

Haith,  a  petty  oath. 

Haivera,  nonsense,  speaking  with- 
out thought 

HaV,  or  hold,  an  abiding  place. 

Hale,  or  haiU,  whole,  tight,  heal- 
thy. 

Hallan,  a  particular  partition-wall 
in  a  cottage,  or  more  pro- 
perly a  seat  of  turf  at  the 
outside. 

HaUoiomaaa,  Hallow-eve,  31st  Oc- 
tober. 

Holy,  holy;  "haly-pool,"  holy 
well  with  healing  qualities. 

Hame,  home. 

Hammered,  the  noise  of  feet  like 
the  din  of  hammers. 

Han'a  breed,  hand's  breadth. 

Hanka,  thread  as  it  comes  from 
the  iheasuring  reel,  quAiiti- 
ties,  Ac. 

Hanael-throne,  throne  when  first 
occupied  by  a  king. 

Hap,  an  outer  garment,  mantle, 
plaid,  Ac. ;  tc  wrap,  to  cover, 
to  hap. 

Han'gaU,  heart,  liver,  and  lights 
I  of  an  animal. 

Hap-ahackUd,  when  a  fore  ana 
hind  foot  of  a  ram  are  fastened 
together  to  prevent  leaping. 
he  is  said  to  be  hap-shackled. 
A  wife  is  caUed  "  the  kirk's 
bap-shaokle." 
Hopper,  a  hopper,  the  hopper  ol 
a  mill. 


536 


GLOSSARY. 


T1>.nyphi<j,  hopping. 

tJap-Htep-an'-loup,  hop,  step,  and 
leap. 

Harkit,  hearkened. 

llaru,  a  very  coarse  linen. 

IJitnh,  a  fellow  who  knows  not  how 
to  act  with  propriety. 

Ilnniit,  hastened. 

Hand,  to  hold. 

tlattghs,  low-lying,  rich  land, 
valleys. 

11>Mirl,  to  drag,  to  pull  violently. 

Huurlin,  tearing  off,  pulling 
roughly. 

ilnvcr-inea/,  oatmeal. 

Unreril,  a  half-witted  person,  half- 
witted, one  who  habitually 
talks  in  a  foolish  or  incohe- 
rent manner. 

Hmim,  good  manners,  decorum, 
good  sense. 

Hankie,  a  cow,  properly  one  with 
a  white  face. 

I/eapit,  heaped. 

fieri/ wme,  healthful,  wholesome. 

flc(irne,  hoarse. 

Heather,  heath. 

Hcdi,  oh  strange!  an  exclamation 
during  heavy  work. 

Hccht,  promised,  to  foretell  some- 
thing that  is  to  be  got  or 
given,  foretold,  the  thing  fore- 
told, offered. 

Heckle,  a  board  in  which  are  fixed 
a  number  of  sharp  steel 
prongs  upright  for  dressing 
hemp,  flax,  <fcc. 

Hee  halou,  words  used  to  soothe  a 
child. 

Heeln-owre-gowdte,      topsy-turvy, 

•       turned  the  bottom  upwards. 

Heeze,  to  elevate,  to  rise,  to  lift. 

Ihlllm,  the  rudder  or  helm. 

Herd,  to  tend  flocks,  one  who 
tends  flocks. 

Hcrrin',  a  herring. 

Herry,  to  plunder ;  most  properly 
to  plunder  birds'  nests. 

Herryment,  plundering,  devasta- 
tion. 

HerseLhirsel,  a  flock  of  sheep, 
also  a  herd  of  cattle  of  any 
sort. 

Het,  hot,  heated. 

HeiKjh,  a  crag,  a  ravine;  coal- 
heit(/h,  a  coal-pit ;  loicin  hetigh, 

vj      a  blazing  pit. 

Hilch,  hilchin',  to  halt,  halting. 

iJiiiey,  honey. 

Hi'ng,  to  hang. 

Ul.-ple,  to  walk  crazily,  tc  walk 
lamely,  to  creep. 

Hi'.ie,  dry,  chapt,  barren. 

HitL-hT,  a  loop,  made  a  knot. 

Hizzie,  huzzy,  a  young  girl. 

Hoddin,  the  motion  of  a  husband- 
man riding  on  a  cart-horse, 
humble. 

Eoddiu-gray,  woollen  cloth  of  a 
coarse  quality,  made  by  min- 
gling one  black  fleece  with  a 
dozen  white  ones. 

Boijyie,  a  two-year-old  sheep. 

Hog-awri,  a  distance  line  in  curl- 


ing drawn   across   the   rink. 

When  a  stone  fails  to  cross  it, 

a  cry  is  raised  of  "  A  hog,  a 

hog !"  and  it  is  removed. 
Hog-shoufher,  a  kind  of  horse-play 

by  justling  with  the  shoulder ; 

to  justle. 
Hoodie-craw,  a  blood  crow,  corbie. 
Hool,  outer  skin  or  case,  a  nutshell, 

a  pea-husk. 
Hoolie,  slowly,  leisurely. 
Hoord,  a  hoard,  to  hoard. 
Hoordit,  hoarded. 
Horn,  a  spoon  made  of  horn. 
Hornie,  one  of  the  many  names 

of  the  devil. 
Host,  or  hoaat,  to  cough. 
Hostin,  coughing. 
Hotchd,      turned       topsy-turvy, 

blended,  ruined,  moved. 
Ilonghmagandie,  loose  behaviour. 
Hoiolet,  an  owl. 
HoHsie,  diminutive  of  house. 
Hove,  hoved,  to  heave,  to  swell. 
Howdie,  a  midwife. 
Hoioe,  hollow,  a  hollowj^r  dell. 
Hoicehackit,   sunk   \nUaQ    back, 

spoken  of  a  hor*^ 
Hotcff,  a  house  of  resort. 
Howk,  to  dig. 
Howkit,  digged. 
Howkin',  digging  deep. 
Hoy,  hoy't,  to  urge,  urged. 
Hoyse,  a  pull  upwards.    "  Hoyse  a 

creel,"  to  raise  a  basket;  hence 

"  hoisting  creels." 
Hoyte,  to  amble  crazily. 
Hughoc,  diminutive  of  Hughie,  as 

Hughie  is  of  Hugh. 
Hums  and  hankers,  mumbles  and 

seeks  to  do  what  he  cannot 

perform. 
Hunkers,  kneeling  and  falling  back 

on  the  hams. 
Hurcheon,  a  hedgehog. 
Hurdiea,  the  loins,  the  crupper. 
Hushion,  a  cushion,  also  a  stock- 
ing wanting  the  foot. 
Huchyalled,  to  move  with  a  hilch. 

I. 

Icker,  an  ear  of  corn. 
leroe,  a  great  grandchild. 
Ilk,  or  ilka,  each,  every. 
Ill-deedie,  mischievous. 
Ill-willie,    ill-natured,    malicious, 

niggardly. 
Ingine,  genius,  ingenuity. 
Ingle,  fire,  fireplace. 
Ingle  low,  light  from  the  fire,  flame 

from  the  hearth. 
/  rede  ye,  I  advise  ye,  I  warn  ye. 
Pse,  I  shall  or  will. 
Ither,  other,  one  another. 

J. 

Jad,  jade ;  also  a  familiar  term 
among  country  folks  for  a 
giddy  young  girl. 

Jank,  to  dally,  to  trifle. 

Jankin',  trifling,  dallying. 

Jauner,  talking,  and  not  always 
to  the  purpose. 


Janp,  a  jerk  of  water;  to  jerk,  aa 
agitated  water. 

JaiD,  coarse  raillery,  to  pour  out, 
to  shut,  to  jerk  as  water. 

Jillet,  a  jilt,  a  giddy  girl. 

Jimp,  to  jump,  slender  in  the 
waist,  handsome. 

Jink,  to  dodge,  to  turn  a  comer  j 
a  sudden  turning,  a  corner. 

Jink  an'  diddle,  moving  to  music, 
motion  of  a  fiddler's  elbow. 
Starting  here  and  there  with 
a  tremulous  movement. 

Jinker,  that  turns  quickly,  a  gay 
sprightly  girl. 

Jinkin',  dodging,  the  quick  motion 
of  the  bow  on  the  fiddle. 

Jirt,  a  jerk,  the  emission  of  water, 
to  squirt. 

Jocteleg,  a  kind  of  knife. 

Jouk,  to  stoop,  to  bow  the  head,  to 
conceal. 

Jow,  to  jow,  a  verb,  which  in- 
cludes both  the  swinging  mo- 
tion and  pealing  sound  of  a 
large  bell;  also  the  undula- 
tion of  water. 

Jundie,  to  justle,  a  push  with  the 
elbow. 

K. 

Kae,  a  daw. 

Kail,  colewort,  a  kind  of  broth. 
Kailrunt,  the  stem  of  colewort. 
Kain,  fowls,  &c.,  paid  as  rent  by  a 

farmer. 
Kehars,  rafters. 
Kebbuck,  a  cheese. 
Keckle,  joyous  cry ;  to  cackle  as  a 

hen. 
Keek,  a  keek,  to  peep. 
Kelpies,    a    sort   of    mischievoua 

water-spirit,    said    to    haunt 

fords  and  ferries  at  night,  es- 
pecially in  storms. 
Ken,   to    know;    ken'd   or    ken't, 

knew. 
Kennin,  a  small  matter. 
Ket-Kctty,   matted,    a    fleece    of 

wool. 
Kiaught,  carking,  anxiety,  to  be 

in  a  flutter. 
Kilt,  to  truss  up  the  clothes. 
Kimmer,  a  young  girl,  a  gossip. 
Kin',  kindred. 
Kin',  kind. 
King's-hood,  a  certain  part  of  the 

entrails  of  an  ox. 
Kintra,  kintrie,  country. 
Kirn,  the  harvest  supper,  a  chum 
Kirsen,  to  christen,  to  baptize. 
Kist,  chest,  a  shop-counter. 
Kitchen,  anything  that  eats  with 

bread,    to     serve    for    soup, 

gravy. 
Kittle,  to  tickle,  ticklish. 
Kittling,  a  young  cat.     The  ace 

of  diamonds  is  called  amo^vg 

rustics  the  kittlin's  e'e. 
Knaggie,  like  knags,  or  points  of 

rocks. 
Knapjiin-hammer,  a  hammer  for 

breaking    stones;    knap,    tc 

strike  cr  break. 


ULOiSfciAiiY. 

537 

Knurlin,    crooked     but    strong, 

Lint-white,  a  linnet,  flaxen. 

Mawin,  mowing;  maun,  mowed: 

knotty. 

Loan,  the  place  of  milking. 

mMw'd,  mowed. 

Knowe,  a  small,  round  hillock,  a 

Loaning,  lane. 

Mawn,  a  small  basket,  without  a 

knoll. 

Loof,  the  palm  of  ^e  hand. 

handle. 

Kuittle,  to  cuddle;  kuitlin,  cud- 

Loot, did  let. 

Meere,  a  mare. 

dling,  fondling. 

Loaves,  the  plural  of  loof. 

Melancholious,  mournful. 

Kye,  cows. 

Losh    man!    rustic    exclamation 

Melder,  a  load  of  com,  Ac,  sent  to 

Kyle,  a  district  in  Ayrshire. 

modified  from  Lord  man. 

the  mUl  to  be  ground. 

Kyte,  the  belly. 

Loun,   a  fellow,  a  ragamuffin,  a 

Mell,  to  be  intimate,  to  meddle, 

Kythe,  to  discover,  to  show  one's 

woman  of  easy  virtue. 

also  a  mallet    for  pounding 

self. 

Loup,  leap,  startled  with  pain. 

barley  in  a  stone  trough. 

Louper-like,  lan-louper,  a  stranger 

Melvie,  to  soil  with  meal. 

L. 

of  a  suspected  character. 

Men',  to  mend. 

Lowe,  a  flame. 

Mense,  good  manners,  decoram. 

Labour,  thrash. 

Lowin',     flaming ;      lowin-drouth, 

Menseless,  ill-bred,  mde,  impudent 

Laddie,  diminutive  of  lad. 

burning  desire  for  drink. 

Merle,  the  blackbird. 

Laggen,   the   angle   between    the 

Lowrie,  abbreviation  of  Lawrence. 

Messin,  a  small  dog. 

side    and    the    bottom   of  a 

Lowse,  to  loose. 

Middin,  a  dunghill. 

wooden  dish. 

Lowsed,  unbound,  loosed. 

Middin-creels,  dung-baskets,  pan- 

Laigh, low. 

Lug,  the  ear. 

niers  in  which  horses  carry 

Lairing,  lairie,  wading,  and  sink- 

Ltig of  the  law,  at  the  judgment- 

manure. 

ing  in  snow,  mud,  Ac,  miry. 

seat. 

Middin-hole,  a  gutter  at  the  hot- 

LaitTi,  loath,  impure. 

Lugget,  having  a  handle. 

tom  of  a  dunghill. 

Laithfu',   bashful,   sheepish,    ab- 

Luggie, a  small  wooden  dish,  with 

Milkin'-shiel,  a  place  where  cowi 

stemious. 

a  handle. 

or  ewes  are  brought  to  b» 

Lallans,    Scottish    dialect.    Low- 

Lum,   the     chimney;     lum-head, 

milked. 

lands. 

chimney-top. 

Mim,  prim,  afiFectedly  meek. 

Lambie,  diminutive  of  lamb. 

Lunch,   a  large   piece  of  cheese. 

Mim-mou'd,  gentle-mouthed. 

Lammas  moon,  harvest-moon. 

flesh,  Ac. 

3fin',  to  remember. 

Lampit,   a  kind  of  shell-fish,  .  a 

Lunt,  a  column  of  smoke,  to  smoke, 

Minawae,  minuet. 

limpet. 

to  walk  quickly. 

Mind't,  mind  it,  resolved,  intend- 

Lan', land,  estate. 

Lyart,  of  a  mixed  colour,  gray. 

ing,  remembered. 

Lan'-afore,  foremost  horse  in  the 

Minnie,  mother,  dam. 

plough. 

M. 

Mirk,  dark. 

Lan'-ahin,  hindmost  horse  in  the 

Misca',  to  abuse,  to  call  names; 

plough. 

Mae,  and  mair,  more. 

mitca'd,  abused. 

Lane,  lone ;  my  lane,  thy  lane,  Ac, 

Maggot' s-meat,  food  for  the  worms. 

Mischanter,  accident 

myself  alone. 

Mahoun,  Satan. 

Misleard,     mischievous,    unman- 

Lanely, lonely. 

Mailen,  a  farm. 

nerly. 

Lang,  long ;  to  think  lang,  to  long. 

Maist,  most,  almost 

Misteuk,  mistook. 

to  weary. 

Maistly,  mostly,  for  the  greater 

Miiher,  mother. 

Lap,  did  leap. 

part 

MUtie-maxtie,  confusedly  mixed. 

Late  and  air,  late  and  early. 

Mak^,  to  make ;  makin',  making. 

mish-mash. 

Lave,  the  rest,  the  remainder,  the 

Mally,  MoUy,  Mary. 

Moistify,  moiMified,  to  moisten,  to 

others. 

Mang,  among. 

soak;  moistened,  soaked. 

Laverock,  the  lark. 

Manse,  the  house  of  the  parish 

Mons-meg,  a  large  piece  of  ord- 

Lawlan', lowland. 

minister     is     called     "the 

nance,  to  be  seen  at  the  Castle 

Lay  my  dead,  attribute  my  death. 

Manse." 

of  Edinburgh,  composed   of 

Leal,  loyal,  true,  faithful. 

Manteele,  a  mantle. 

iron  bars  welded  together  and 

Lear,  learning,  lore. 

Mark,  marks.     This  and  several 

then  hooped. 

Lee-lang,  live-long. 

other  nouns  which  in  Eng- 

Mools, earth. 

Leesome    lave,    happy,    gladsome 

lish  require  an  a  to  form  the 

Many,  or  monie,  many. 

love. 

plural,  are  in  Scotch,  like  the 

Moop,  to  nibble  as  a  sheep. 

Leeze  me,  a  phrase  of  congratula- 

words  sheep,  deer,  the  same 

Moorlan,  of  or  belonging  to  moon. 

,  tory  endearment ;  I  am  happy 

in  both  numbers. 

Morn,  the  next  day,  to-morrov. 

in  thee  or  proud  of  thee. 

Mark,  merk,  a  Scottish  coin,  value 

J/oM,  the  mouth. 

Leister,  a  threa-pronged  and  barb- 

thirteen  shillings  and  four- 

Moudiwort,  a  mole. 

ed  da't  for  striking  fish. 

pence. 

Mousie,  diminutive  of  mouse. 

Leugh,  did  !augh. 

Marled,  p^rty-colonred. 

Muekle,    or     mickle,    great,    big, 

Leuk,  a  look,  to  look. 

Mai's  year,  the  year  1715.    Called 

much. 

Libbet,  castrated. 

Mar's  year  from   the   rebel- 

Musts-stank, muses-rill,  a  stank. 

Lick,  Ucket,  beat,  thrasben. 

lion    of    Erskine,    Earl    of 

slow-flowing  water. 

Lift,  sky,  firmament. 

Mar. 

Musie,  diminutive  of  muse. 

Lightly,  snecringly,  to  sneer  at,  to 

Martial  chuck,  the  soldier's  :arop- 

Muslin-kail,  broth,  composed  sim- 

undervalue. 

comrade,  female  compaTUon. 

ply    of   water,   shelled    bar- 

Lilt, a  ballad,  a  tune,  to  sing. 

Maahlim,  mixed  com. 

ley,  and  greens;  thin  poor 

Limmcr,  a  kept  mistress,  s  Strom- 

Mask,  to  mash,  as  malt,  Ac.,  to  in- 

broth. 

pet. 

fuse. 

Mutehkin,  an  English  pint 

Limp't,  limped,  hobbled. 

Maskin-pat,  teapot 

Mysel,  myself. 

Link,  to  trip  along;  linktn,  trip- 

Maukiu, a  hare. 

ping  along. 

Maun,  mauna,  must,  must  not 

N. 

linn,  a  waterfall,  a  cascade. 

3faut,  malt 

Lint,  flax ;  lint  t*  th^  hell,  flax  in 

Maris,  the  thrush. 

Na*,  no,  not,  nor. 

Cower.                                       i 

Maw,  to  mow. 

Xaej  or  tui,  no,  not  anjr* 

638 


GLOSSARY. 


NaetTiing,  or  naithing,  nothing. 

Naig,  a  horse,  a  nag. 

Kane,  none. 

Nappy,  ale,  to  be  tipsy. 

.Neijkckit,  neglected. 

Neehor,  a  neighbour. 

Neuk,  nook. 

Neiet,  next. 

Nieve,  nief,  the  fist. 

Nievefu',  handful. 

Niffcr,  an  exchange,  to  barter. 

Niger,  a  negro. 

Nine-tailed  cat,  a  hangman's  whip. 

Nit,  a  nut. 

Norland,  of  or  belonging  to  the 

north. 
Notic't,  noticed. 
Nowte,  black  cattle. 


0',  of. 

O'ergang,  overbearingness,  to  treat 
with  indignity,  literally  to 
tread. 

Overlay,  an  upper  cravat 

Ony,  or  onie,  any. 

Or,  is  often  used  for  ere,  before. 

Orra-duddies,  superfluous  rags, 
old  clothes. 

O't,  of  it 

Ourie,  drooping,  shivering. 

Ourael,  oursela,  ourselves. 

Outlers,  outliers ;  cattle  unhoused. 

Oicer,  owre,  over. 

Owre-hip,  striking  with  a  fore- 
hammer  by  bringing  it  with 
a  swing  over  the  hip. 

Oioaen,  oxen. 

Oxtered,  carried  or  supported  un- 
der the  arm. 

P. 

Pack,  intimate,  familiar:  twelve 

stone  of  wool. 
Paidle,  paidlen,  to  walk  with  difiS- 

culty,  as  if  in  water. 
Painch,  paunch. 
Paitrick,  a  partridge. 
Pang,  to  cram. 
Parle,  courtship. 
Parishen,  parish. 
Parritch,     oatmeal    pudding,     a 

well-known  Scotch  drink. 
Pat,  did  put  a  pot 
Pattle,  or  pettle,  a  small  spade  to 

clean  the  plough. 
Panghty,  proud,  haughty. 
Patiky,  cunning,  sly. 
Pay't,  paid,  beat. 
Peat-reek,  the  smoke  of  burning 

turf,    a     bitter     exhalation, 

whisky. 
Pech,  to  fetch  the  breath  shortly, 

as  in  an  asthma. 
Pechan,  the  crop,  the  stomach. 
Pechin,  respiring  with  difficulty. 
Pennie,  riches. 
Pet,  a  domesticated  sheep,  Ac,  a 

favourite. 
Pettle,  to  cherish. 
Philabeg,  the  kilt 
Pkraxse,  fair  speeches,  flattery,  to 

flatter. 


Phraisin,  flattering. 

Pibroch,  a  martial  air. 

Pickle,  a  small  quantity,  ope  grain 
of  corn. 

Pigmy -scraper,  little  fiddler;  a 
term  of  contempt  for  a  bad 
player. 

Pint-atoup,  a  two-quart  measure. 

Pine,  pain,  uneasiness. 

Pingle,  a  small  pan  for  warming 
children's  sops, 

Plack,  an  old  Scotch  coin,  the 
third  part  of  an  English 
penny. 

Plackleaa,  pennyless,  without  mo- 
ney. 

Plaidie,  diminutive  of  plaid. 

Platie,  diminutive  of  plate. 

Plew,  or  pleugh,  a  plough. 

Pliakie,  a  trick. 

Plumroae,  primrose. 

Pock,  a  meal-bag. 

Poind,  to  seize  on  cattle,  or  take 
the  goods  as  the  laws  of  Scot- 
land allow,  for  rent,  <fcc. 

Poorteth,  poverty. 

Poaie,  a  nosegay,  a  garland. 

Pou,  pou'd,  to  puU,  puUed. 

Pouk,  to  pluck. 

Pouaaie,  a  hare  or  cat. 

Pouae,  to  pluck  with  the  hand. 

Pout,  a  polt,  a  chick. 

Pou't,  did  pull. 

Poutherey,  fiery,  active. 

Pouthery,  like  powder. 

Po%D,  the  head,  the  skull. 

Pownie,  a  little  horse,  a  pony. 

Poicther,  or  pouther,  gunpowder. 

Preclair,  supereminent 

Preen,  a  pin. 

Prent,  printing,  print 

Prie,  to  taste ;  prie'd,  tasted. 

Prief,  proof. 

Prig,  to  cheapen,  to  dispute ;  prig- 
gin,  cheapening. 

Primsie,  demure,  precise. 

Propone,  to  lay  down,  to  propose. 

Pund,  pund  o'  tow,  pound,  pound 
weight  of  the  refuse  of  flax. 

Pyet,  a  magpie. 

Pyle,  a  pyle,  o'  caff,  a  single  grain 
of  chaff. 

Pyatle,  epistle. 

Q. 

Quat,  quit. 

Quak,  the  cry  of  a  duck. 

Quech,  a  drinking-cup   made   of 

wood  with  two  handles. 
Quey,  a  cow  from  one  to  two  years 

old,  a  heifer. 
Quinea,  queans. 
Quakin,  quaking. 

R. 

Eagweed,  herb-ragwort. 
Raihle,  to  rattle,  nonsense. 
Eair,  to  roar. 

Eaize,  to  madden,  («,  inflame. 
Eamfeezled,  fatigued,  overpower- 
ed. 
Eampin'y  raging. 


Eamatam,  thoughtless,  forwarii. 

Eandie,  a  scolding  sturdy  beggai; 
a  shrew. 

Eantin',  joyous. 

Eaploch,  properly  a  coarse  cloth| 
but  used  for  coarse. 

Earely,  excellently,  very  well. 

Eaah,  a  rush ;  rash-buae,  a  bush  of 
rushes. 

Eatton,  a  rat 

Eaucle,  rash,  stout,  fearless,  redu 
less. 

Eaught,  reached. 

Eaw,  a  row. 

Eax,  to  stretch. 

Eeam,  cream,  to  cream. 

Eeamin',  brimful,  frothing. 

Eeave,  take  by  force. 

Eebjite,  to  repulse,  rebuke. 

Eeck,  to  heed. 

Eede,  counsel,  to  counsel,  to  dis- 
course. 

Eed-peata,  burning  turfs. 

Eed-wat-ahod,  walking  in  blood 
over  the  shoe-tops. 

Eed-wud,  stark  mad. 

Eee,  half  drunk,  fuddled;  a  ree 
yaud,  a  wild  horse. 

Eeek,  smoke. 

Eeekin',  smoking. 

Eeekit,  smoked,  smoky. 

Eeeatit,  stood  restive;  stunted, 
withered. 

Eemead,  remedy. 

Eequite,  requited. 

Eeatricked,  restricted. 

Eew,  to  smile,  look  affectionately, 
tenderly. 

Eicklea,  shocks  of  com,  stooks. 

Eiddle,  instrument  for  purifying 
corn. 

Eief-randiea,  men  who  take  the 
property  of  others,  accom- 
panied by  violence  and  rude 
words. 

Eig,  a  ridge. 

Ein,  to  run,  to  melt;  rinnin',  run- 
ning. 

Eink,  the  course  of  the  stones,  a 
term  in  curling  on  ice. 

Eip,  a  handful  of  unthreshed  corn. 

Eipplea,  pains  in  the  back  and 
loins,  sounds  which  usher  in 
death. 

Eipplin-kame,  instrument  for 
dressing  flax. 

Eiakit,  a  noise  like  the  tearing  of 
roots. 

Eockin',  a  denomination  for  a 
friendly  visit  In  former 
times  young  women  met  with 
their  distaffs  during  the  win- 
ter evenings,  to  sing,  and  spin, 
and  be  merry ;  these  were 
called  "  rockings." 

Eoke,  distaff. 

Eood,  stands  likewise  for  the  plu- 
ral, roods. 

Eoon,  a  shred,  the  selvage  of  wool- 
len cloth. 

Eooae,  to  praise,  to  commend. 

Eoun',  round,  in  the  circle  of 
neighbourhood. 

Eoupet,  hoarse,  as  with  a  cold. 


aLOSSARY.                                                   639     1 

Roto,  to  roll,  to  rap,  to  roll  &s 

Shaver,  a  humorous  wag,  a  barber. 

Sma',  small. 

water. 

Shavie,  to  do  an  ill  turn. 

Smeddum,   dust  powder,  mettle^ 

Roto't,  rolled,  wrapped. 

Shaw,  to  show ;  a  small  wood  in  a  \          sense,  sagacity.                             | 

Eowte,  to  low,  to  bellow. 

hollow  place. 

Smiddy,  smithy. 

Rowth,  plenty. 

Sheepshank,  to  think  ont^a  aelf  nae 

Smirking,  good-natured,  winking 

Roiotin',  lowing. 

sheep-shank,  to  be  conceited. 

Smoor,  smoored,  to  smother,  smo- 

Rozet, rosin. 

Sherra-muir,  SherifiF-Mulr,  the  fa- 

thered. 

Rumble-gumption,  rough  common- 

mous  battle  of,  1715. 

Smoutie,  smutty,  obscene ;  amoutit 

sense. 

Sheugh,  a  ditch,  a  trench,  a  sluice. 

phiz,  sooty  aspect 

Run-deila,  downright  devils. 

Shiel,  ahealing,  a  shepherd's  cot- 

Smytrie, a  numerous  collection  of 

Rung,  a  cudgel. 

tage. 

small  individuals. 

Ru7it,  the  stem  of  colewort  or  cab- 

SliiU, shrilL 

Snapper,  mistake. 

bage. 

Shog,  a  shock,  a  push  off  at  one 

Snash,  abuse,  Billingsgate,  imper 

Runkled,  wrinkled. 

side. 

tinence. 

Ruth,  a  woman's  name,  the  book 

Shoo,  ill  to  please,  ill  to  fit 

Snaw,  snow,  to  snow. 

so  called,  sorrow. 

Shool,  a  shovel. 

Snaw-hroo,  melted  snow. 

Ryke,  reach. 

Shoon,  shoes. 

Snawie,  snowy. 

Shore,  to  offer,  to  threaten. 

Snap,  to  lop,  to  cut  off. 

S. 

Shor'd,  half  offered  and   threat- 

Sned-hesoms, to  cut  brooms. 

Sue,  so. 

ened. 

Sneeshin,  snuff. 

Sa/t,  soft. 

Shouther,  the  shoulder. 

Sneeshin-mill,  a  snuff-box. 

Sair,  to  serve,  a  sore ;  sairie,  sor- 

Shot, one  traverse  of  the  shuttle 

Snell  and  snelly,   bitter,   biting; 

rowful. 

from  side  to  side  of  the  web. 

anellest,  bitterest. 

Sairhj,  sorely. 

Sic,  such. 

Snick-drawing,  trick,  contriving. 

Sair't,  served. 

Sicker,  sure,  steady. 

Snick,  the  latchet  of  a  door. 

Sark,  a  shirt. 

Sidelins,  sideling,  slanting. 

Snirt,  anirtle,  concealed  laughter. 

Sarkit,  provided  in  shirts. 

Silken-snood,   a  fillet   of    silk,   a 

to  breathe  the  nostrils  in  a 

Saugh,  willow. 

token  of  virginity. 

displeased  manner. 

Saugh-woodies,  withies,  made  of 

Siller,  silver,  money,  white. 

Snool,  one  whose  spirit  is  broken 

willows,  now  supplanted  by 

Simmer,  summer. 

with  oppressive   slavery;   to 

ropes  and  chains. 

Sin,  a  son. 

submit  tamely,  to  sneak. 

Saul,  soul. 

Sinsyne,  since  then. 

Snoove,  to  go  smoothly  and  con- 

Saumont, salmon. 

Skaith,  to  damage,  to  injure,  in- 

stantly, to  sneak. 

Saunt,  aauntet,  saint^  to  varnish. 

jury. 

Snowk,  snowkit,  to  scent  or  snuff 

Saut,  salt. 

Skeigh,  proud,  nice,  saucy,  met- 

as a  dog,  scented,  snuffed. 

Saw,  to  sow. 

tled. 

Sodger,  a  soldier. 

Sawin',  sowing. 

Skeigh,  shy,  maiden  coyness. 

Sonaie,  having    sweet    engaging     . 
looks,  lucky,  jolly.                      f 

Sax,  six. 

Skeilum,  a  noisy  reckless  fellow. 

Scand,  to  scald. 

Skelp,  to  strike,  to  slap ;  to  walk 

Soom,  to  swim. 

Scauld,  to  scold. 

with  a  smart  tripping  step,  a 

Souk,  to  suck,  to  drink  long  aad 

Scaur,  apt  to  be  scared;  a  preci- 

smart stroke. 

enduringly. 

pitous  bank  of  earth  which 

Skelpi-limmer,  a  technical  term  in 

Souple,  flexible,  swift 

the  stream  has  washed  red. 

female  scolding. 

Soupled,  suppled. 

Scatcl,  a  scold. 

Skelpin,  skelpit,  striking,  walking 

Souther,  to  solder. 

Scone,  a  kind  of  bread. 

rapidly,  Uterally  striking  the 

Souter,  a  shoemaker. 

Scanner,  a  loathing,  to  loath. 

g»und. 

Sowens,  the  fine   flour  remaining 

Scratch  and  Scriegh,  to  scream,  as 

SkinkUn,  thin,  gauzy,  scaltery. 

among  the  seeds  of  oatmeal 

a  hen  or  partridge. 

Skirling,  shrieking,  crying. 

made  into  an  agreeable  pud- 

Screed, to  tear,  a  rent;  screeding, 

Skirl,  to  cry,  to  shriek  shrilly. 

ding. 

tearing. 

SkirVt,  shrieked. 

Sowp,  a  spoonful,  a  small  quantity 

Scrieve,  acrieven,  to  glide  soflly. 

Sklent,  slant,  to  run  aslant,  to  de- 

of anything  liquid. 

gleesomely  along. 

viate  from  truth. 

Sowth,  to  try  over  a  tune  with  a 

Scrimp,  to  scant 

Sklented,  ran,  or  hit,  in  an  oblique 

low  whistle. 

Scrimpet,  scant,  scanty. 

direction. 

Spae,  to  prophesy,  to  divine. 

Spaila,  chips,  splinters. 

Spaul,  a  limb. 

Spairge,  to  clash,  to  soil,  as  with 

Scroggie,  covered  with  underwood, 

Skouth,  vent,  free  action. 

bushy. 

Skreigh,  a  scream,  to  scream,  the 

Seuldudrey,  fornication. 

first  cry  uttered  by  a  child. 

Seizin',  seizing. 

Skyte,  a  worthless  feUow,  to  slide 

mire. 

Sel',  self;  a  body't  aeF,  one's  self 

rapidly  off. 

Spatea,  sudden  floods. 

alone. 

Skyrin,  party-coloured,  the  checks 

Spariet,  having  the  spavin. 

Skin,  did  selL 

of  the  tartan. 

Speat,  a  sweeping  torrent   aftei 

Sen',  to  send. 

Slae,  sloe. 

rain  or  thaw. 

Servan',  servant 

Slade,  did  slide. 

Sptel,  to  olimb. 

Settlin',  settling;  to  get  a  aetilin', 

Slap,  a  gate,  a  breach  in  a  fence. 

Spenee,  the  parlour  of  a  farmhouse 

to  be  frighted  into  quietness. 

Slaw,  slow. 

or  cottage. 

Seta,  acta  off,  goes  away. 

Slee,  aUeat,  sly,  slyest 

Spier,  to  ask,  to  inquire;  apiert, 

Shavhlet./eet,  ill-shaped. 

Sleekit,  sleek,  sly. 

inquired. 

Shair'd,  a  shred,  a  shard. 

Sliddery,  slippery. 

Spinnin-graith,    wheel   and    rok« 

Shangan,  a  stick  cleft  at  one  end 

Slip-shod,  smooth  shod. 

and  lint 

for  pulling  the  tail  of  a  dog, 

Sloken,  quench,  slake. 

Splatter,  to  splutter,  a  splutter. 

Ac,  by  way  of  mischief,  or  to 

Slypt,  to  fall  over,  as  a  wet  fturrow 

Spleughan,  a  tobacco-pouch. 

frighten  him  away. 

from  the  plough. 

Splore,  a  frolic,  noise,  riot 

Shauk-it,  walk  it;  ahanka,  legs. 

Slypet-o'er,  fell  over  with  a  slow 

SprachUd,  scrambled. 

Shaul,  shallow. 

reluctant  motion.                      1 

Sprattle,  to  scramble. 

540 

GLOSSARY. 

Sprechhd,  spotted,  speckled. 

Stook,  etooked,  a  shock  of  corn. 

Tangle,  a  sea-weed  used  as  salad. 

Spriiuj,  a  quick  air  in   music,  a 

made  into  shocks. 

Tap,  the  top. 

Scottish  reel. 

Stot,  a  young  bull  or  ox. 

Tapetless,  heedless,  foolish. 

Sprit,  bpret,  a  tough-rooted  plant 

Stound,  sudden  pang  of  the  heart. 

Targe,   targe   them   tightly,   cr088- 

something  like  rushes,  joint- 

Stoup,  or  stowp,  a  kind  of  high 

question  them  severely. 

ed-leaved  rush. 

narrow  jug  or   dish   with   a 

Tarroio,  to  murmur  at  one's  allow- 

Sprittie, full  of  spirits. 

handle  for  holding  liquids. 

ance. 

Spunk,  fire,  mettle,  wit,  spark. 

Stowre,    dust,    more    particularly 

Tarry-breeks,  a  sailor. 

Sjiiinkie,  mettlesome,  fiery;    will 

dust  in  motion  ;  stowrie,  dustjr. 

Tassie,  a  small  measure  for  liquor. 

o'  the  wisp,  or  ignis  fatuus; 

Stownlins,  by  stealth. 

Tauld,  or  tald,  told. 

the  devil. 

Stown,  stolen. 

Taupie,    a     foolish,     thoughtless 

Spnrtle,  a  stick  used  in  making 

Stoyte,  the  walking  of  a  rV-,...v^n 

young  person. 

oatmeal  pudding  or  porridge, 

man. 

Tauted,  or  taul^e,  matted  together 

1,  notable  Scottish  dish. 

Straek,  did  strike. 

(spoken  of  hair  and  wool). 

Squad,  a  crew  or  party,  a  squad- 

Strae, straw;   to  die  a  fair  strae 

Tawie,  that  allows  itself  peaceably 

ron. 

death,  to  die  in  bed. 

to  be  handled  (spoken  of  a 

Squatter,  to  flutter  in  water,  as 

Straik,  to  stroke ;  etraiket,  stroked. 

cow,  horse,  <fcc.) 

a  wild-duck,  Ac. 

Stra2}pen,  tall,  handsome,  vigorous. 

Teat,  a  small  quantity. 

Sqnattle,  to  sprawl  in  the  act  of 

Strath,  low  alluvial  land,  a  holm. 

Teethlesa  baictie,  toothless  cur. 

hiding. 

Straught,  straight. 

Teethless  gab,  a  mouth   wanting 

Sqiteel,   a  scream,  a  screech,  to 

Streek,  stretched,  to  stretch. 

the  teeth,  an  expression  of 

scream. 

Striddle,  to  straddle. 

scorn. 

Stacker,  to  stagger. 

Stroan,  to  spout,  to  piss. 

Ten-hotira-bite,   a   slight   feed    to 

Stack,  a  rick  of  corn,  hay,  peats. 

Strovp,  the  spout. 

the  horse  while  in  the  yoke  in 

Staggie,  a  stag. 

Studdie,  the  anvil. 

the  forenoon. 

Staig,  a  two  year-old  horse. 

Stumpte,  diminutive  of  stump;  a 

Tent,  a  field  pulpit,  heed,  caution ; 

Stalwart,  stately,  strong. 

grub  pen. 

to  take  heed. 

Stang,  sting,  stung. 

Strunt,   spirituous   liquor   of  any 

Tentie,  heedful,  cautious. 

Stan't,  to  stand ;  stan't,  did  stand. 

kind;  to  walk  sturdily,  to  be 

Tentless,  heedless,  careless. 

Stane,  stone. 

affronted. 

Teugh,  tough. 

Stank,  did  stink,  a  pool  of  stand- 

Stuff, corn  or  pulse  of  any  kind. 

Thaek,   thatch;    thack   an'   rape, 

ing  water,  slow-moving  water. 

Stxirt,  trouble ;  to  molest. 

clothing  and  necessaries. 

Sfap,  stop,  stave. 

Startin,  frighted. 

Thae,  these. . 

Stark,  stout,  potent. 

Styme,  a  glimmer. 

Thairms,  small  guts,  fiddle-strings. 

Startle,  to  run  as  cattle  stung  by 

Sucker,  sugar. 

Thankit,  thanked. 

the  gadfly. 

Sud,  should. 

Theekit,  thatched. 

Staukin,   stalking,    walking    dis- 

Sugh, the  continued  rushing  noise 

Thegither,  together. 

dainfully,  walking  without  an 

of  wind  or  water. 

ThemseV,  themselves. 

aim. 

Sumph,  a  pluckless   fellow,  with 

Thick,  intimate,  familiar. 

Sfavmrel,  a  blockhead,  half-witted. 

little  heart  or  soul. 

Thigger,  crowding,  make  a  noise ; 

Staio,  did  steal,  to  surfeit. 

Suthron,  Southern,  an   old  name 

a  seeker  of  alms. 

Stech,  to  cram  the  belly. 

of  the  English. 

Thir,  these. 

Stechin,  cramming. 

Swaird,  sword. 

Thirl,  to  thrill. 

Steek,  to  shut,  a  stitch. 

SicalVd,  swelled. 

Thirled,  thrilled,  vibrated. 

Steer,  to  molest,  to  stir. 

Swank,  stately,  jolly. 

Thole,  to  suffer,  to  endure. 

Sfeeve,  firm,  compacted. 

Swanki.e,  or  aicanker,  a  tighUptrap- 
ping  young  fellow  or  girl. 

Thoice,  a  thaw,  to  thaw. 

Stell,  a  still. 

Thoioless,  slack,  lazy. 

*S'/e;),  to  rear  as  a  horse,  to  leap 

Sioap,  an  exchange,  to  barter. 

Thrang,  throng,  busy,  a  crowd. 

suddenly. 

Swar/ed,  swooned. 

Thrapple,  throat,  windpipe. 

Stravagin,  wandering  without  an 

Sicat,  did  sweat. 

Thraw,  to  sprain,  to  twist,  to  con- 

aim. 

Stoatch,  a  sample. 

tradict. 

Stents,  tribute,  dues  of  any  kind. 

Swats,  drink,  good  ale,  new  ale  or 

Thrawin',  twisting,  &e. 

iS'^ey,  steep ;  atyest,  steepest. 

wort. 

Thrawn,   sprained,   twisted,    con- 

Stibble,   stubble;   etuhhle-rig,    the 

Sweer,   lazy,  averse;   dead-sweer, 

tradicted,  contradiction. 

reaper  in  harvest  who  takes 

extremely  averse. 

Threap,  to  maintain  by  dint  of  as- 

the lead. 

*  Stooor,  swore,  did  swear. 

sertion. 

Stick-an'-8tow,  totally,  altogether. 

Swinge,  to  beat,  to  whip. 

Threshin',    threshing ;     threshing- 

Stilt-stilta,  a  crutch;  to  limp,  to 

Swinke,  to  labour  hard. 

tree,  a  flail. 

halt;    poles  for    crossing    a 

Sioirlie,  knaggy,  full  of  knots. 

Threteen,  thirteen. 

river. 

Swirl,  a  curve,  an  eddying  blast 

Thristle,  thistle. 

Stimpnrt,   the   eighth  part  of   a 

or  pool,  a  knot  in  the  wood. 

Through,  to  go  on  with,  to  make 

Winchester  bushel. 

Swith,  get  away. 

out. 

Stirk,  a  cow  or  bullock  a  year 

Swither,  to  hesitate  in  caoice,  an 

Throuther,  pell-mell,    confusedly 

old. 

irresolute  wavering  in  choice. 

(through-ither). 

Stock,  a  plant  of  colewort,  cab- 

Syebow, a  thick-necked  onion. 

Thrum,  sound  of  a  spinning-wheel 

bages. 

Syne,  since,  ago,  then. 

in  motion,  the  thread  remain- 

^tockin',   stocking;    throtoing   the 

ing  at  the  end  of  a  web. 

stockin',  when  the  bride  and 

T. 

Thud,  to  make  a  loud  intermittent 

bridegroom  are  put  into  bed, 

noise. 

the  former  throws  a  stocking 

Tackets,  broad-headed  nails    for 

Thummart,  foumart,  polecat. 

at  random  among  the  com- 

the heels  of  shoes. 

Thnmpit,  thumped. 

pany,  and  the  person  whom 

Tae,  a  toe ;  three-taed,  having  three 

ThyseU,  thyself. 

it  falls   on  is  the  next  that 

prongs. 

Till't,  to  it. 

will  be  married. 

Tak,  to  take;  takin,  taking. 

Timmer,  timber. 

GLOSSAKF. 


541 


Ttne,  to  lose ;  tint,  lost. 

Tinkler,  a  tinker. 

Tip,  a  ram. 

Tiiipence,  twopence,  money. 

Tirl,  to  make  a  slight  noise,  to 
uncover. 

Tirlin',  tirlet,  uncovering. 

Tither,  the  other. 

Tittle,  to  whisper,  to  prate  idly. 

Tittlin,  whispering. 

Ticl-ir,  marriage  portion;  tocher 
bauds,  marriage  bonds. 

Tod,  a  fox.  "  Tod  i'  the  fauld," 
fox  in  the  fold. 

Toddle,  to  totter,  like  the  walk  of 
a  child  J  todlen-dow,  toAdling 
dove. 

Too-/a',  "Too  fa'  o'  the  nicht," 
when  twilight  darkens  into 
night;  a  building  added,  a 
lean-to. 

Toom,  empty. 

Tonnicd,  emptied. 

J'co;),  a  ram. 

T088,  a  toast 

Toaie,  warm  and  ruddy  with 
warmth,  good-looking,  in- 
toxicating. 

Toun,  a  hamlet,  a.  farmhouse. 

Tout,  the  blast  of  a  horn  or  trum- 
pet, to  blow  a  horn  or  trumpet. 

Touzles,  touzling,  romping,  ruffling 
the  clothes. 

Tow,  a  rope. 

Toicmond,  a  twelvemonth. 

Towzie,  rough,  shaggy. 

Toy,  a  very  old  fashion  of  female 
head-dress. 

Toyte,  to  totter  like  old  age. 

Trams,  barrow-trams,  the  handles 
of  a  barrow. 

Tranam  ugrified,  transmigrated, 
metamorphosed. 

Traahtrie,  trash,  rubbish. 

Trickie,  full  of  tricks. 

Trig,  spruce,  neat. 

Trimly,  cleverly,  excellently,  in  a 
seemly  manner. 

Trinle,  trintle,  the  wheel  of  a  bar- 
row, to  roll. 

Trinklin,  trickling. 

Troygera,  troggin',  wandering  mer- 
chants, goods  to  truck  or  dis- 
pose of. 

Troic,  to  believe,  to  trust  to. 

Trowth,  truth,  a  petty  oath. 

Tryata,  appointments,  love  meet- 
ings, cattle  shows. 

Tumblcr-icheela,  the  wheels  of  a 
kind  of  low  cart 

Tug,  raw  hide,  of  which  in  old 
time  plough-traces  were  fre- 
quently made. 

Tug  or  tow,  either  in  leather  or 
rope. 

Tulzie,  a  quarrel,  to  quarrel,  to 
fight 

Twa,  two ;  tioa-fald,  twofold. 

Twa-three,  a  few. 

Twad,  it  would. 

Ttval,  twelve;  twalpermie  worth, 
a  small  quantity,  a  penny- 
worth.— N.  B.  One  penny 
English  is  12d.  Scotch. 


Twa /aid,  twofold. 

Twin,  to  part. 

Twiatle,  twisting,  the  art  of  making 

a  rope. 
Tyke,  a  dog. 
Tyaday,  Tuesday. 

U. 

Unback'd  Jilly,  a  young  mare 
hitherto  unsaddled. 

Unco,  strange,  uncouth,  very,  very 
great,  prodigious. 

Uncos,  news. 

Unfauld,  unfold. 

Unkenn'd,  unknown. 

Unsieker,  uncertain,  wavering,  in- 
secure. 

Unakaithed,  undamaged,  unhurt 

Upo',  upon. 

V. 

Vap'rin,  vapouring. 

Vauntie,   joyous,    delight    which 

cannot  contain  itself. 
Vera,  very. 

Virl,  a  ring  round  a  column,  &c. 
Vogie,  vain. 

W. 

Wa',  wall;  wa's,  walls. 

Wabater,  a  weaver. 

Wad,    would,  to    bet,  a   bet,   a 

pledge. 
Wadna,  would  not 
Wadset,  land  on  which  money  is 

lent,  a  mortgage. 
Wae,    woe;     waefiC,     sorrowful; 

wailing. 
Wae/u'-icoodie,  hangman's  rope. 
Waeaitcka !   Wae' a  me  1     Alas  !    0 

the  pity ! 
Wa'  flower,  wall-flower. 
Waft,.viooi',  the  cross  thread  that 

goes  from  the  shuttle  through 

the  web. 
Waifs  an'  crocks,  stray  sheep  and 

old  ewes  past  breeding. 
Wair,  to  lay  out,  to  expend. 
Wale,  choice,  to  choose. 
Wald,  chose,  chosen. 
Walie,  ample,  large,  jolly,  also  an 

exclamation  of  distress. 
Wame,  the  belly. 
Wamefu',  a  bellyful. 
Wanchanaie,  unlucky. 
Wanrest,  wanrest/u',  restless,  un- 

restful. 
Work,  work. 

Wark-lume,  A  tool  to  work  with. 
Warld'a-ica^m,  a  miser. 
Warle,  or  warld,  world. 
War/ocA:,  a  wizard;  warlock-knotc€, 

a  knoll  where  warlocks  once 

held  tryste. 
Warly,  worldly,  eager  in  amassing 

wealth. 
Warran',  a  warrant,  to  warrant 
Warale,  wrestle. 
Warald,  or  wnrst'led,  wrestled. 
Waatrie,  prodigality. 
Wat,  wet;  /  wat — I  wot — I  know. 


Wat,  a  man's  upper  dress ;  a  sort 
of  mantle. 

Water-broae,  brose  made  of  meal 
and  water  simply,  without  th» 
addition  of  milk,  butter,  Ac 

Wattle,  a  twig,  a  wand. 

Wauble,  to  swing,  to  reel. 

Waukin,  waking,  watching. 

Watikit,  thickened  as  fullers  do 
cloth. 

Waukri/e,  not  apt  to  sleep. 

Waur,  worse,  to  worst 

Waur't,  worsted. 

Weati,  a  child. 

Weary-widdle,  toilsome  contest  of 
life. 

Weaaon,  weasand,  windpipe. 

Weaven'  the  stocking,  to  knit 
stockings. 

Weeder-olipa,  instrument  for  re- 
moving weeds. 

Wee,  little ;  wee  thinga,  little  ones, 
wee  bits,  a  small  matter. 

Weel,  well ;  loeel/are,  welfare. 

Weet,  rain,  wetness ;  to  wet 

We'ae,  we  shall. 

WTia,  who. 

Whaizle,  to  wheeze. 

Whalpit,  whelped. 

Whang,  a  leathom  thong,  a  piec« 
of  cheese,  bread,  <fec. 

Whare,  where;  whare'er,  wher- 
ever. 

Wheep,  to  fly  nimbly,  to  jerk, 
penny-wheep,  small-beer. 

Whose,  wha'a,  whose — who  is. 

What  reck,  nevertheless. 

Whid,  the  motion  of  a  hare  run- 
ning, but  not  frighted — a  lie. 

Whidden,  running  as  a  hare .  of 
coney. 

Whigmeleeries,  whims,  fancies, 
crotchets. 

Whilk,  which. 

Whingin',  crying,  complaining, 
fretting. 

Whirligiguma,  useless  omamen'a, 
trifling  appendages. 

Whiaale,  a  whistle,  to  whistle. 

Whiaht,  silence ;  to  hold  oivf'i 
whist,  to  be  silent. 

Whisk,  whiaket,  to  sweep,  to  lash. 

Whiakin'  beard,  a  beard  like  the 
whiskers  of  a  cat 

Whiskit,  lashed,  the  motion  ot  a 
horse's  tail  removing  flies. 

Whifter,&he&Tty  draughtof  liquor. 

Whittle,  a  knife. 

Whunatane,  a  whinstone. 

Wi*,  with. 

Wick,  to  strike  a  stone  in  an  ob- 
lique direction,  a  term  in 
curling. 

Widdi/u,  twisted  like  a  withy,  ««c 
who  merits  hanging. 

Wiel,  a  small  whirlpool. 

Wifle-wijikie,  a  diminutive  01  en- 
dcaring  name  for  wife. 

Wight,  stout,  enduring. 

Willyart-glotoer,  a  bewildered  dis- 
mayed stare. 

WimpU-womplet,  to  meander,  me- 
andered, to  enfold. 

Wimplin,  waving,  meandering. 


542 


GLOSSARY. 


Win',  to  wind,  to  winnow. 
Winnin' -thread,    putting    thread 

into  hanks. 
Win't,  winded  as  a  hottom  of  yarn. 
Win',  wind. 
Win,  live. 
Winna,  will  not. 
Winnock,  a  window.   . 
Winfiome,  hearty,  vaunted,  gay. 
Wintle,  a  staggering  motion,  to 

stagger,  to  reel. 
Whs,  to  wish. 
Withouten,  without. 
Wizened,      hide-bound,       dried, 

shrunk. 
Winze,  a  curse  or  imprecation. 
Wonner,  a  wonder,  a  contemptuous 

appellation. 
Woo',  wool. 

Woo,  to  court,  to  make  love  to. 
Widdie,  a  rope,  more    properly 

one  of  withs  or  willows. 


TFbcr-6o6»,the  garter  knitted  below 
the  knee  with  a  couple  of  loops. 

Wordy,  worthy. 

Woraet,  worsted. 

Wrack,  to  tease,  to  vex. 

Wud,  wild,  mad;  wud-mad,  dis- 
tracted. 

Wumble,  a  wimble. 

Wraith,  a  spirit,  a  ghost,  an  ap- 
parition exactly  like  a  living 
person,  whose\.ppearance  is 
said  to  forbode  the  person's 
approaching  death ;  also 
wrath. 

Wrung,  wrong,  to  wrong. 

Wreeth,  a  drifted  heap  of  snow. 

Wyliecoat,  a  flannel  vest. 

Wyte,  blame,  to  blame. 


Ye,  this   pronoun  is  freqnently 
used  for  thou. 


Yearns,  longs  much. 

Yealinga,  born  in  the  same  year, 
coevals. 

Year,  is  used  both  for  singular 
and  plural,  years. 

Yell,  barren,  that  gives  no  milA. 

Yerk,  to  lash,  to  jerk. 

Yerket,  jerked,  lashed. 

Yestreen,  yesternight. 

Yett,  a  gate. 

Yeuk's,  itches. 

Yill,  ale. 

Yird,  yirded,  earth,  earthed,  bu- 
ried. 

Yokin',  yoking. 

Yont,  ayont,  beyond. 

Yirr,  lively. 

Yowe,  an  ewe. 

Yowie,  diminutive  of  yove. 

Yule,  Christmas. 


THE    END 


^ 


[ 


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